


Bouquet of Asphodels

by Seselt



Series: a Season in Hades [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post-War, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-01-23 19:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 26,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18556663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seselt/pseuds/Seselt
Summary: Hermione Granger wears Cathal Rosier like a flayed skin, unsure which one of them is the puppet. But there is still work to be done and revenge sings a siren call to the survivors of both sides of the Second Wizarding War. If Hermione cannot have her day in court then she will have her season in Hell.





	1. Unacceptable

**Author's Note:**

> To avoid being bogged down like I was with 6 Pomegranate Seeds (so many words!) I'm keeping chapters in this story short in hopes of posting more often. I can make no promises regarding speed, fluency, or intelligibility.

Cathal Rosier née Hermione Granger liked to think herself a patient witch. Unfortunately, she also knew she was self-righteous and vengeful and right now so very tempted to cut loose with some curses. She took a slow, deep breath to begin counting to ten. At five, her restraint cracked, letting out a torrent of words but not, fortunately yet, the profanities she wanted to spit.

“What do you mean Umbridge will not be charged?” Hermione didn't slam a fist on the table either or draw any of the wands she had concealed upon her person. She even managed to not raise her voice much, which was probably a mistake as it allowed the Ministry twonk to assume she wasn't murderously angry.

“Miss Rosier, the judicial process is complicated...” Algernon Vickers began with a practised reassuring smile.

“Lady Rosier.” She corrected sharply. “I am the Head of the House of Rosier.” She was also the presumptive Head of the House of Selwyn, and could make a good case for being the custodial Head of the British branches of the Houses of Shafiq and incongruously Malfoy. “This is an official inquiry under the aegis of my Wizengamot Seat.” Hermione reminded him. “So, officially, why isn't she in Azkaban?”

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement thought it awkward to charge individual public servants with misconduct considering the entire Ministry was forced to comply.” The answer was polished. Rosier wasn't the name it had been before two wars. She was well down the list of enquiries. The answer was also almost word for word what Susan had got when she'd asked.

Neville had asked too but had been too outraged to properly note what he was being told. He'd gone to Bones, who had used her late aunt's connections to verify the as yet unpublished verdict. As the House of Bones was a vassal of the House of Rosier, Susan had brought a bottle of the good whiskey to Cathal's to numb her shock and share her wrath.

“Awkward.” That careful word stuck out. She bared her teeth in what couldn't pass for a smile even in the dark. “Yes, I can see how the DMLE might be discomfited by what they found under their own rocks.” Hermione rose from her chair and with effort thanked Vickers for his time. And put his name on the list.

She walked out of the Ministry into Muggle London. She found a nice café, ordered an espresso then pulled out a mobile phone. It was an ordinary Nokia but with a composite lead case to shield it from magical interference. Hermione had tested and refined the modifications before distributing the handy little gadgets to her comrades. Once Gringotts found out about the DA galleons, the goblins had leaned on the Ministry to toughen the legislation against the adulteration of currency to specifically include the charms Hermione had used.

Gringotts was viciously keen to prosecute anyone despoiling the artistry of their coins. It was fortunate for Miss Granger that she was dead.


	2. Unanticipated

They met for dangerous caffeine at a Greek coffee shop in Piccadilly. Susan ordered at the counter then slid into a quiet booth at the back. It was just before the lunch rush so it wasn't long until she had a varis really-I-mean-it-strong cup in hand. She sipped, you didn't gulp café Hellenico, and eyed the pastries.

“So.” The scion of the House of Bones prompted as she succumbed to the baklava. She loved honey sweets but couldn't bake them at wand point. Felicitously, conspiracy gave her plenty of opportunity to treat herself.

“The same spiel.” Hermione confirmed, stirring her spiced hot chocolate. “Too many skeletons in too many closets.” She had to fight to keep the sneer off Cathal's face. They were meeting in Muggle London because it was the fashionable thing now and Susan was a half-blood. Nothing to see here. “The rush of honesty didn't last longer than the intake of new Aurors.”

“I've owled Harry half a dozen times.” Susan was proud to have been in the DA. She'd stood up and taken the caning. She just wished more people shared the Hufflepuff ethic; now the high profile trials were over no one seemed to want to launch a proper investigation. There was no corruption in the Ministry, not with Shacklebolt's new broom and the shining ranks of heroes guarding the nation.

“He's in Germany hunting Rowle.” Which she knew because she had been questioned by Dean Thomas over any connection between her Max relatives, the wanted wizard, and her presumed sympathies. She had danced with the Death Eater at her debut after all. “There are new confidentiality protocols in place, apparently. I asked and got 'no comment'.”

“I'll see if any of the boys are willing to talk to me, or I'll ask Hannah to chat them up. She's working at the Cauldron.” And she was angry enough to help. Susan sipped more coffee, treasuring the rush and the bitterness. “The inquiry into her mother's death hasn't been reopened. Won't be, due to mishandling of the case.” The redhead looked her feudal overlord in the eye. “Do you know who killed her mother?”

“Mulciber and one of the younger recruits. A training exercise to test his nerve.” Hermione replied after some thought. The new initiates had liked to boast of their prowess, and their excesses. She had made herself listen so she could answer questions like this. To give some closure, however feeble. “Holt was his name. Ballard Holt.”

“Not a prominent family.” She'd never really been interested in the web of kinship and heritage and Sacred Twenty-Eight and all that guff. Her parents had deliberately tried to shield her from the legacy of the first wizarding war. They hadn't lied. They simply hadn't talked about it. Aunty Amelia had been more frank but Susan hadn't asked the right questions before it was too late.

“He's a pure-blood so he'll be in the Department of Heritage and Lineage's books. If someone's hiding him or shielding themselves from blowback from a family connection, their name will be there too.” That department had shuffled back into dusty obscurity, its budget cut to pre-war austerity, with a mooted name change to further whitewash history.

“Not sure we have someone to plausibly touch that morass.” Susan frowned then slowly, consciously smoothed her face, easing the tight set of her mouth. She'd caught sight of herself in passing in a shop mirror at Tesco's. Those pinched lips, narrowed eyes; Alecto Carrow's expression reflected back at her. She'd dropped her shopping basket from numb hands. The imprint, the fear, had dug in deep.

So now she checked herself. A conscious decision to assess, to relax and not allow her learned behaviour to rule her. Susan told herself staunchly that she didn't need to be wary all the time. Didn't need to anticipate punishment in every defiance. She could in fact quietly plot reprisals in a nice cafe with a not nice woman. And no one would fucking stop her because she wouldn't let anyone raise a bloody hand to her ever again.


	3. Unmitigated

Theo was not by nature an optimist. He did have a certain perspective on the comfort and privilege of his life. An uncomfortably realistic perspective now those circumstances had changed. He'd grown up rich and rarefied, shielded by his father to an extent he had not understood until again everything had changed.

Now he sat in on a shrouded settee as someone else's house elves packed up his possessions. Packed up his life tidily into antique travelling cases. There were plenty at least, more than enough for what he was allowed to take. His great-great aunt Thelema had been an inveterate traveller, sending crates of objets trouvé home to her father's estate always in exquisitely crafted magical luggage. She'd been responsible for the bone wind chimes and the infestation of billywigs.

Both of which would be staying with the Manor along with anything Dark, suspect, newly contraband, or because-we-say-so. The list of approved belongings had been remarkable for its brevity. Short and bittersweet. Theo sat and tried to work his mind into a form of acceptance. If he could only see this move as freedom then perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much. Desire is pain after all.

He'd managed a numb sort of passivity when Cathal stepped through the floo. She was wearing Muggle clothes, which made her look gangling and over-ample. The house elves all guiltily paused as their Mistress strode over to their former Master to share the settee with him. Theo stretched out his legs to mimic her ease and eyed her legs.

“Are those denims?” He knew next to nothing about mundane couture.

“Jeans, yes.” Hermione answered absently, glad of something to say that wasn't clumsy condolence. “I met Susan for coffee.”

“Are you aware as her liege it is your responsibility to chaperone her? You could insist on a magical rendezvous.” Theo had been reluctantly admiring of Cathal's annexation of the Bones heiress. Not quite pure-blood but close enough with appropriate patronage. Matronage, in this case.

“Fairly sure we are both being watched.” She scratched her ankle with the edge of her ballet flat. The personal wards Moppet had layered over her meshed well except for a mild itching. “Might as well make them work for it. Decades of lead petrol has left certain parts of London with enough resistance to make scrying erratic.”

“Am I to assume you have adapted a mining spell to detect such diffuse contamination?” He smiled for the first time in days. Miss Rosier had a knack for applied magic that never failed to impress him. She had made quite a compelling case for the non-uselessness of Muggle Studies. At her nod, Theo sighed. “I would prefer obvious oversight to creeping distrust. I keep waiting for the Ministry to find something else to impound.”

“We'll just have to wait it out. Until we have someone in a serious governmental position, we have no pushback.” Hermione didn't like that. At all. However, she was pragmatic enough to understand some changes had to be incremental, to slip by scarcely noticed. Legal changes, that is. Illegal adjustments to the zeitgeist could be done with the tact of a sledgehammer.

“Non nobis solum.” Theo murmured, hearing what Cathal did not say. It helped that he knew she was settling debts on the quiet. Several of their fellow Slytherins only tangentially related to Death Eaters but targeted by the Ministry nonetheless had been resettled outside Britain. Jaakan Moncrieff, his kin still unfound, was quietly doing an apprenticeship in New Zealand on Rosier's galleon.

Nott Snr. was peacefully in Monaco doing as the locals did; complaining about the density of Muggles and perfecting his elemental magic. At a confluence of strong earth and water leys, the tiny wizarding enclave boasted more Masters and Mistresses per head of population than any other magical settlement in continental Europe. It was a fine place for a scholar to retire.

Theo was not going to Monaco. He was going to France, which was near enough not to shun but not so close they had to actually talk. There was a great deal he and his father needed to discuss. None of which Theo wished to broach. The Ministry could rail against him and thwart his schooling and seize his property and emancipate his house elves but they could not, yet, charge him with anything. He intended to be well out of the country before that altered.

“I don't expect I'll miss the house. It's draughty and the portraits mutter, but it's mine, you understand?” He hated how maudlin he sounded. Theo reminded himself he had got off lightly. Enough of the right sort of people had seen him return to Hogwarts ostensibly to stand with Rosier in defiance of the Dark Lord. The House of Nott had been punished though he himself had not, technically.

“I understand.” Hermione had left enough of her past, of her self behind that she understood very well.


	4. Unwelcome

What could be better than springtime in Paris with a pretty blond?

Right now Hermione would've cheerfully opted for a root canal without anaesthetic. She had signed endless custody forms and tapped lengthy scrolls with her wand to add her magical mark to the documents. She'd solemnised the paperwork with drops of her blood and sealed them with her signet ring in an old, old rite to attest worthiness by her House alone. Against her better judgement, she had allowed Aurors pick over her homes. Jumped through endless hoops just so the Ministry of Magic would concede that she had the prior claim on the person of Draco Lucius Malfoy.

He had sworn fealty to her, after all.

Mirabile dictu, Hermione thought, her brain stuffed full of Latin from the legal challenge she'd fought on principle and cussedness. It was finally done. She didn't want Malfoy. No one wanted Malfoy. However, conditions in Azkaban were possibly worse than they had been before the war and the arrogant ponce didn't deserve the lifetime in prison his Mark would've got him had she not objected.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had trotted out all the medieval precedents they could excavate to keep him but Galleons and persistence had won the day. Magical Britain was bankrupt. A generous settlement as 'surety' for Malfoy's good behaviour as well as the fines levied against his family's vaults had resolved the matter. That and exile for ten years.

Hence Paris in April with cherry blossoms drifting lazily on the breeze. Hermione had been in France for reasons she had not disclosed to the Ministry so the choice of residence was easy. The Rosiers had property scattered throughout the country. She'd asked her elves to pick a house they liked, which had got her La Roseraie, a charming townhouse in the 5th arrondissement with enough wards on it to stun a dragon.

“He's all yours, Lady Rosier.” The disdain was palpable but this Auror had been professional. She'd complained in writing when the previous ones had sneered at her. Hermione's aide-de-camp in the campaign against chronic stupidity had a stock of form letters. Everything from official censures from a Sacred Twenty-Eight House to banal 'no comment' statements for the press. 

“You'll need to fetch him yourself. Arrangements will be made.” The second burly lackey was less scrupulous. His gaze had rarely lifted from her tits and he had swaggered. Too pleased to be on the winning side. She'd not seen him in either of her lives so he'd likely spent the war hiding behind his desk in the bowels of the Ministry, the tosser.

“Thank you. I delight in the prospect of homage.” Hermione replied smoothly. With a nod, Bonica, the doyen of the Rosier house elves, shooed the Aurors to the Apparition foyer and supervised their departure. Magic tingled across her skin as the house wards slammed back into place.

“Ministry scrotes.” Moppet muttered from behind Hermione where she had been lurking invisibly just in case the Aurors tried something. She had her wand out and twirled it in her long fingers. “I bets you they left sneaky things behind.”

“I don't doubt it.” She had watched to the best of her ability when the Ministry team had poked about but she hadn't been able to keep an eye on all of them, and the use of scrying magic on Aurors was a felony. At least she wasn't particularly attached to La Roseraie. She hadn't walked the wards or attuned them to her in the seasonal rites. Knocking out a few walls and running conduits everywhere hadn't disturbed her ancestral connection to the townhouse. 

“Moppet checks video feeds from cameras while yous fetch bad wizard.” The house elf declared. She liked pressing the buttons on the electric box thing. She didn't like Malfoy. “You wants leave some so Ministry thinks they has spies?”

“If you find something very well hidden, then yes, leave it. Otherwise, clean out the lot. The wards themselves emit so much interference no sensible person would expect to be able to snoop.” Of course it remained to be seen how much sensible the Ministry had left. “If there's anything with the sigil of the Department of Mysteries, don't touch it.” Hermione sighed. “That place is haemorrhaging knick-knacks. I badly want to know who's using the DoM like a car boot sale.”

“Is not your job to fix.” Moppet reminded her witch, again. Cathal-Hermione got fixy urges. “We done with war. We sit in garden drinking fizzy wine and leave idiots to stupid in peace.”

“The difficult with that is idiocy is contagious. If we leave them to stew, they'll muck it up for everyone.” Hermione headed down the hall to the Apparition foyer, a feature of many older pure-blood homes. It was rude to just pop in willy-nilly. The household wards were more plastic here, sculpted to reduce the chance of Splinching.

“Is Miss sure she wants the Malfoy boy here?” Bonica, neat in her table cloth toga, inquired placidly as she swept the last trace of the Aurors from the room. The elder house elf had expressed her opinion with a heady freedom that the old Master would never have allowed. Unusually, Lady Rosier had overruled her. Bonica was unwilling to let the matter rest.

“It's not ideal and I'm not keen on his company but I can get him out of Azkaban. I don't expect him to be grateful.” Neither Hermione Granger nor Cathal Rosier had a high opinion of Draco's humility. “Please let everyone in the rehab group know we have a new release.” Malfoy wasn't the first prisoner they'd got out. Pragmatism forced her to concede enthusiasm for this one wouldn't be high. “And specify who it is so they can refuse to help.”


	5. Unrepentant

“I'll help with Malfoy but I'll need to Portkey to Massachusetts on the weekends. Amalric's fretting about his EAGLEs.” Millicent remarked as she poured tea from the huge brass samovar. Muggles would've had an urn and some ghastly fake milk. She added two sugar cubes with a pair of silver tongs and a squeeze of lemon because she liked to remind herself she was British. The French put cream in everything and the Americans served tea cold.

“Has he decided on a career path?” Hermione made a note in her day planner to write to Millicent's little brother to check if he needed anything. The Bulstrodes had got out with a lot when they had cut and run but his parents had more or less dumped their heir at Ilvermorny before going their separate ways.

“He's still tossing up between Arithmancy and Astronomy, oh and thank you from him for the telescope. The lenses or whatever are better.” She smiled indulgently. She didn't care what it was about, she was simply glad Amalric was talking again. He'd barely said a word the first year they were in the States. “I'd prefer he did his NEWTs with Vector. Everyone always said she was the best.”

“Hogwarts has residency requirements now, pushed through to stop people from decamping and not paying UK taxes while educating their children at the Ministry's expense.” It was a desperately needed cost saving measure according to Ona Parangyo, who had briefed Cathal Rosier personally in hopes of having her Seats' votes to pass the bill. She'd agreed after being read into the Ministry's account books.

“I don't even know where my parents are!” Millicent put her teaspoon down with a firm click before she pitched it across the room. “I think my father is in Bermuda and Morgana only knows where Mother has gone.” She did not add 'good riddance' aloud but she was thinking it. “Could I do it? What are the requirements?”

“Same as the ones Beauxbatons uses. They revised the catchment areas to disallow former colonies. The legislation hadn't been updated since 1911.” Hermione hunted around among the scrolls on the book case stretching the length of the repurposed dining room and found one with Hogwarts's seal. “Here. I got a copy with the mail out for prospective Eighth Years.”

Millicent read while Hermione resumed trawling through her post. She needed a separate diary just to keep track of her letters. Having Theo on her payroll as her personal secretary helped keep the paperwork to a manageable level, barely. She could wallpaper Rosier Hall with Ministry correspondence alone.

“How did the McHavelocks get around this?” Grimacing at her own acid tone, Millicent heard her mother's scolding. In defiance of many lectures on how she was a disappointment, she continued forcefully. “Gossip has it they took all their holdings overseas. According to what I heard, there was exactly one knut left in each of their vaults after they paid off their workers.” They had done that at least. Other families had not been so scrupulous. “I've heard nothing of their return.”

“One great-aunt sponsoring several students.” Hermione had asked via Elspeth Crowdy, who had been friends with Llian McHavelock before the mercantile family had fled Voldemort. “She lives in their oldest property, a holiday home in Devon. According to my solicitor, such houses aren't subject to any of the 'continual occupation' clauses as they're seasonal residences.”

“Neat little loophole.” She sipped her tea, added more lemon, and let her mouth run again because it was not as though she had to mind her manners to coax a wizard into marrying her. Any boy who would've offered was dead or poor. She was free. Unless she fancied courting a foreigner, which she did not. “How much do you want for helping me get back into Britain so Amalric can go to Hogwarts?”

It was rather letting the side down not to negotiate more tactfully but Millicent was too angry to pussyfoot and gleefully discarded the delicacy she'd never found easy. Besides, Rosier liked blunt. She favoured the old earth frankness of the Flints rather than the swaying grace of the Greengrasses. The Bulstrodes might not be what they had been, those broken Yule staves still rankled, but she was worth her wand.

“Fealty. Same as Bones and Malfoy.” Hermione answered promptly. She'd done more research into the archaic social conventions that bound the chronic inbred daftness of magical society. She wouldn't have minded so much except she was now a pillar of that daftness. Wizengamot presence and all. Thus she may as well go all in and exploit the unwritten or at least unspoken laws. “A personal dedication of cojoined purpose.”

“Do you want me to wear a hennin too?” Millicent arched a brow she hadn't plucked in weeks. No more fussing about minute details of her appearance to show she was a witch who had the skill and time for obsessive grooming. This morning she had rolled out of bed, Scourgified herself, and pulled on a tracksuit. If she never wore worsted wool again, she'd cross the Veil happy.

“If the Ministry wants to cherry-pick legislation then so shall I. They're not going to dismantle centuries of precedent to rewrite traditions that underpin inheritance laws.” She shrugged. Either the Ministry would drag itself into the twenty-first century or she'd continue to exploit the twelfth. “It got Susan into the Bones Seat. It'll get you back in the UK, albeit in one of my homes.”

“Got a posh house in town? I'm tired of rattling around in a country pile.” While she had no objection to looking at gardens, Millicent saw no point in spending buckets of Galleons maintaining them just so other people could trample her lawn. Plus a small home meant small parties where she need only invite guests she actually liked.

“The Selwyns have a house in Cloth Fair in the City of London. It's wards are stuck to a Muggle building too but it's acceptably well-to-do.” More than acceptably, considering the Muggle property was valued at upwards of five million Pounds.

“I won't swear anything that also binds Amalric. I want him to be able to make his own choices.” Millicent hesitated then mentally shoved herself. “And not have to pay for our parents' mistakes.” Rosier knew all about that sort of baggage.

“Have you asked him if he wants to transfer to Hogwarts?” Irrespective of her corpus, Hermione was always practical. Better to ask permission than beg forgiveness, though she had never sat on her hands if permission was denied.

“We've discussed it broadly.” Millicent got up to pace. She needed to move. Needed to swing out her arms and take up space. She'd bought herself a bicycle, something her parents would have expressly forbidden if they'd had cared enough to stick around to monitor her conduct. A few scrapes and a balancing charm later, she was mobile with control she'd never felt on a broom. “He's not happy there. Not our land. Not our place.”

“I'll arrange a Portkey for the next liberty weekend so we can talk to him, and the school if necessary.” Hermione suggested. “Assuming you have guardian rights.”

“My father foisted all the parchment on me. I'd like to think he believes his life is threatened and is distancing himself from us for our safety.” She peered through the picture window into the misty landscape beyond, an illusion masking the Muggle streetscape. La Roseraie's occupants need not trouble themselves with mundane Paris. “I'd like to think it but I don't. He's treating our exile like a second youth. A debaucherous Grand Tour. I hate him almost as much as my mother sometimes.”


	6. Unconscious

Rain dripped over the dark rocks on the shore like drool over broken teeth. Salt spray as bitter as tears ran down his face. He saw these things and felt them and watched with staring eyes as the boatman docked at the bare pier. One of the Aurors pushed him forward, shoving again when he stumbled. The other hung back waiting until he had dragged himself onto the wood before climbing agilely up, stepping clear in case he attempted violence.

He struggled to his feet, trembling as the cold wind blew through him. They had taken away his uniform, stuffing him into shabby robes that wouldn't have fit even before his term in prison. All the baggy garments did now was soak up the rain and stick to his scrubbed raw skin. He stood and shook, breathing air that tasted more of despair than liberty.

The two Aurors dragged him off the pier and up a rocky path, careless whether he skinned his hands or knees as he stumbled. They trekked to a paved road. There was a sign in green and white that meant nothing to him. Names and numbers from a foreign world. They left him there, Apparating away with a noise like thunder.

He sank to the ground powerless to do more than lean against the metal uprights of the sign, too hopeless to think of bettering his situation. He was out. He was free. He curled in on himself as he had in his cell to preserve what heat he could and lay there empty of all thought. Raindrops trickled down his face. Perhaps he wept.

“Malfoy.”

The voice came out of the gloom. He looked up as a figure approached through the grey curtain of the squall. A bright yellow umbrella dazzled him. Colours were alien after so long in murk. Lush and alluring, he stared as the vivid peculiar thing neared. It stopped over him, shielding him. The hand not holding the crook drew a wand.

He anticipated pain. He felt warm air around him. A second spell dried his clothes. The sensation was so unexpectedly overwhelming he did not resist as the figure pulled him to his feet. They, she, smelled of eucalyptus and mint. He leaned in close to gulp the scent as she put an arm around him. Fresh clean sharp, the fragrances heady after musty stone, were joined by the ionised tang of magic as she Disapparated them.

They came to a place he did not recognise. A small room without ornament, terracotta tiles on the floor that boggled him until he realised the clay had been fired into hexagons not squares. An old conceit to show they had been made in a magical kiln. Age had worn the sharp corners and the surface was more satin than gloss. He stared at the honeycomb pattern as he was set down onto a bench pushed against the wall, unresponsive as hands passed over his body searching for wounds.

Someone else was there now in awful Muggle clothes, hurrying forward to help the witch ministering to him. He allowed them to do what they wished. He was too confused, too addled by sights and sounds to resist. As the large woman picked him up bodily he wondered why she didn't levitate him but the effort of thinking was too taxing for him to find a conclusion. He shut his eyes as the world shaded into black.


	7. Unforgotten

At the time, writing her will had seemed a bit of tidiness. She'd been giving it serious thought since the Department of Mysteries. Dolohov could've killed her. He would have done it with as little thought as swatting a fly, leaving her friends and her parents to clean up the detritus of her life. Hermione had not had high expectations of Harry or Ron managing that task, and having the duty fall to Professor McGonagall had seemed too pat. Too much of a closed circle.

So she'd known what she'd wanted and had lodged the forms with the Probate Service. She had also registered a living will with St Mungo's. Healing magic was not infallible and when things went badly, the consequences could be horrific. Wizarding society had long had legal arrangements in the event of the worst.

If you were prepared.

Frank and Alice Longbottom had made provisions for their death but not for incapacity, leaving their care and the custody of their son in the hands of Frank's mother by default. James and Lily had almost certainly left a will. Somewhere. The document had not surfaced to refute Dumbledore's high-handed decisions on Harry's well-being. Two lessons Hermione had learned.

Being left empty, the hollow victim of a Dementor had seemed quite a real possibility so she had specifically included a request for what St Mungo's euphemistically called 'a peaceful end'. She hadn't anticipated in any way her junket through time or the knots in the thread but it did soothe her a little that she had got some of what she had requested.

Hermione Jean Granger rested in her maternal grandparents' plot in a Somerset churchyard, with the great-uncle who'd been killed in the Second World War and her mother's little sister who had died young. She had spent summers in the village with her historian grandfather and her retired teacher grandmother in their small house stuffed with books.

Cathal Rosier had not attended the funeral. She'd kept away long enough to assume she would be alone when she paid her respects. Part of that was to avoid Granger's friends and part was because she didn't know what her reaction would be. She was dead and buried, and with her all her hopes and dreams and ephemeral plans. Towards the end, her ambition had been to see the next day, the next hour, the next however long just enough to get done what needed to be done.

“Heaven swallowed the smoke.” The sound of footsteps across soft grass had gone unnoticed. The voice didn't so much pull her from her thoughts as give them new direction. Of all people, Luna Lovegood would understand being crosswise to the world.

“She expected to be Wiglaf.” Hermione recognised the quote. “Particularly after Ron left them.” Even now so close to herself, she was another person. “Certainly not Beowulf. That was Harry's destiny.”

“It is always easier in the sagas. They skip over the dull bits.” Luna absently tucked a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. “And they always know what to say at the graveside. More practise, I suppose.”

“If you have a question, ask it.” A second go around had given her more patience for the Ravenclaw's whimsy, and the galling self-awareness of how patronising that attitude was. Luna had more than earned the respect of a fair hearing. She was not someone to be indulged while commending oneself for tolerance. That said, Hermione did have to pick up dinner.

“Were you in love with her?”

“What?” That was unexpected. “Where did that come from?”

“A feeling. A harmony, perhaps.” Luna mused. “Anthony fretted about the High Priestess reversed. He always drew that one for you, and once for Millicent Bulstrode just before she vanished.” The free-thinking witch hummed to herself. “I think he was looking in the wrong place. The ten of wands would have told him more.”

“Goldstein didn't seem to think anyone could do the same thing for years.” She smirked. “I was hardly the only one in a rut not of my own making.”

“Few climb out, though.” Setting a sprig of rosemary on the gravestone, Luna contemplated the numbers inscribed. “She was the same age as the boy.” She touched the Flight Lieutenant's name but felt only marble. He had long gone to Valhalla. “Is that significant, do you think?”

“Only as a Children's Crusade.” Years had honed her disdain of the adults who had cowered behind teenagers. At least, with the exception of Draco Malfoy, at the very least the Death Eaters had all been adults. They had bloodied their own hands. She didn't know who to blame and expected she would have to settle for who she could catch. “Granger opened my eyes. She taught me to persist.”

“I would think knowing when to stop might be useful too.” Luna remarked quietly.

“I'm not tired yet.” Hermione turned from her marker, putting aside what she could of the remains. “Do you want to help?”

“No.” She said on a sigh. “No, I don't think so. I've done enough for now.” Luna didn't meet Rosier's zealot's gaze. “I think I will go into the wild places and find myself. The me I am now is fallow. It's been a long winter.”


	8. Unencumbered

It was six o'clock on the second Wednesday of the month and it was Cathal's turn to bring dinner. She levitated the bags of Chinese take-away onto the trestle table as Justin set out the cups and saucers. They always started with hot chocolate regardless of the meal though there were tea and coffee sachets by the electric kettle. The community hall hosted several support groups so it had been no trouble to slot themselves in as a generic rehabilitation program.

“My mum's coming down with something and couldn't mind the children so Reg stayed home.” Mary Cattermole hung up her raincoat and umbrella on the peg rail. She could have spelled them dry but they'd agreed no magic. This was a place where they could be ordinary. They didn't use the word 'normal' because they weren't but 'ordinary' was okay.

“You can bring them, if that's easier.” Justin did not mention nannies or au pairs, a staple presence of his childhood. Reg hadn't got his job back at the Ministry and with no Muggle records of his existence couldn't find work on the mundane side of the fence. They were living off Mary's part-time salary as a receptionist while they waited on compensation.

“I know but there's things I don't want them to know yet.” She started unfolding chairs. “And people need to be able talk. No censorship.” The brittle edge to her voice made her pause and straighten her back. Mary the greengrocer's daughter did not have to be frightened any more. “I might bring Maisie, my eldest, during summer hols. If she wants to. She's nervy. The school nurse sent a note home.”

“Still on the St Mungo's wait list?” Hermione asked, hunting for the chopsticks.

“Yes.” Mary sighed, frustrated. “It's so bloody slow. Derek's only just been assessed and the Cresswells are on the Memorial.” In the first flush of restitutions after the war, the families who had lost relatives were given priority access to health services, mostly Healers donating their time. The Ministry had not yet made provisions for continuing support and the number of volunteers was dwindling.

“The Thomases have had a little luck with CAMHS.” Justin offered. He was still looking for a Squib psychiatrist but any with lingering connections to the magical world had fled rather than risk purer relatives pruning their family tree. “They had to say the trauma was from racial harassment but Dean's sisters did get a place with a child psychologist.”

“I'm not going to lie to the NHS.” Mrs Cattermole snapped, hands tightening on the back of an uncomfortable chair. “Sorry.” She said automatically. She looked at herself in the mirror every morning and told herself today she would be a better person; stronger, braver, whatever it was she needed to be. Not someone who jumped when the doorbell rang. As if Death Eaters would've used the bell.

“No offence taken.” Justin answered smoothly, conscious of a year on the Riviera with a houseful of semi-strangers. He'd been lucky. He'd got out before the worst. And the guilt weighed.

“I am not going to carry this with me forever.” The Muggle-born loosened her grip and unfolded the chair to add to the circle. “I'm going to talk about my bloody feelings and eat cashew chicken and dance when Umbridge is put away.”

Because Cathal Rosier was a Slytherin, Mary didn't see her flinch. The girl was very self-contained and generally honest, surprisingly, so it wasn't a sudden shiftiness either. A stillness, perhaps. Mary had always had 'little feelings' she'd rationalised as being run-of-the-mill magic. She'd done alright in Divination but she was hardly a sibyl. However, something in the air had soured.

“She's not going to be put away, is she?” There was nothing pink in her house. She couldn't stand the colour any more.

“The Ministry isn't going to charge her or anyone else. The trials are officially done.” Hermione said it baldly, unwilling to cajole the news into anything other than what it was; a fucking outrage.

Mr and Mrs Yeo and Alderton walked in to see Mary fling a chair across the hall in an instinctive rush of anger so intense she could taste it. The Yeos froze while Alderton raised his hands in a conciliatory posture. A year in Azkaban hadn't erased a lifetime of trying to talk out his problems like a reasonable person though it had severely dented his expectation of anyone listening.

The Muggle-borns trickled in to their once a month 'health group' to fill the cheap chairs in the rented space, to eat chow mein and stir-fried vegetables, and listen to Rosier update them on the private Wizengamot sessions. They had no access to the deliberations of their own government unless called to present themselves. Senior Ministry personnel and 'persons of influence' could sit in on debates but the Death Eaters' purge had cut out the Mudbloods thoroughly.

There'd been some rehires. The post-war Ministry had made much of getting first generation wizards and witches back into their jobs. However, anyone with any prominence had been killed or disappeared. The highest placed Muggle-born currently was an extremely overworked assistant coordinator in the Office of Misinformation. No one with legislative powers.

“I'm fed up with this shite!” Frances Yeo was a fifty year old potioneer from Liverpool, who'd been proud of having made something of himself. He'd graduated with top marks in his Year, earned an apprenticeship with a prestigious Master, and built a successful business. He had also spent almost two years in Azkaban because of his blood status then the misplacement of his Ministry file.

“We have recourses.” Hermione interjected mildly, hoping to stem a rant.

“I expect you do, you soft bap.” Yeo snapped before his wife put her hand on his. His chest tightened as he took a deep breath. To her credit, Rosier took his insult on the chin. She wasn't la-di-da and she was one of the few doing any actual graft. Her name had been on the query that had got his case reviewed. He'd still be sitting in his cell otherwise. “More lodgements of complaint, then?”

“I was thinking of making a list and hunting people down personally.” Hermione did not smile. She was not joking. “We have the testimonies. It's just a matter of confirming identities. We won't be able to get everyone. Probably not even most. We'll be able to get some of them for something.” She laughed mirthlessly. “Capone went to jail for tax evasion.”


	9. Unwanted

When Draco Malfoy opened his eyes again, he was in bed. It was a nice bed with soft sheets and a fluffy blanket. He rubbed his hands over the covers. They seemed real. He had dreamed madly in Azkaban, unsure of what was physical or phantasmal. Looking around, he saw a white ceiling, walls papered with blue stripes, and a darker blue rug on a wooden floor. There was a window with heavy curtains framing a misty world beyond.

If he were dreaming, this wasn't his usual fantasy. Mostly he was home in his own room safe or flying around the grounds impossibly unfettered. Draco pushed himself up against the bedstead then sat panting among the pillows as the exertion took his breath away. He was as weak as a kitten. Staring at his hands he could pick out every bone.

A suspiciously short amount of time after he roused, the door opened. Millicent Bulstrode of all people strode or perhaps bulled in with a tray. Seeing him already sitting up, she put the breakfast across his lap and tucked a linen napkin under his chin. Draco had enough vigour to glare at her as she swirled a spoon through thin porridge. She met his eyes boldly.

“Yes, I'm going to feed you. This isn't my first sickbed, Malfoy.” Her tone was brisk trying for clinical, the long Muggle shirt she wore was green hinting at a mediwitch's robe. He shook his head. “Don't be proud. The muscle wasting is a symptom from the Azkaban wards and we can't give you potions on an empty stomach.”

“Feed myself.” Draco croaked then sat astonished at the hoarseness of his voice. He could hear himself speaking in his own head perhaps not strong and sure but at least intelligible. Out loud he sounded like a frog at the bottom of a well.

“In a few days, certainly.” Millicent agreed lightly. “Right now all you'll do is drop the spoon and make a mess on the bedding. We do enough laundry as it is. Pardon me for not wanting to have to change your sheets because you're stubborn.”

“Magic.” He asserted, his tone a wisp of a shadow of his old arrogance.

“Not for you. The Azkaban wards and guff stick. We have to be careful.” She'd only seen it on screen, part of a briefing Rosier and Bones had put together for the helpers. A few of the Muggle-borns released from prison had consented to have their reactions to magic documented, mostly in hopes of getting into St Mungo's for access to regenerative magic. The waiting list stretched and the lingering stigma against ex-cons, even Registry victims, deprioritised them.

“Witch.” He licked his lips and gestured towards the glass of water on the tray. Millicent helped him drink, steadying him when he gasped. “A witch brought me.”

“Rosier got you out. No one expects you to be grateful.” The bitter twist of her wide mouth was almost poisonous. She didn't comment any further and his silence let her get some food into him. The porridge was as bland as they could make it to guarantee feeble stomachs wouldn't reject it. Draco finished the small bowl then leaned back, sweating. Millicent mopped his face with the napkin and took the tray away. 

Draco stared at the ceiling until he faded into a doze.


	10. Unshriven

Severus Snape did not belong in an alpine chalet with views of the Mont Blanc massif. Heidi he was not, irrespective of the difference between Swiss bucolic literary drivel and his current French immurement. The convalescent home was infuriatingly comfortable, the air untainted by conflict, and he was far from the grasp of the British Ministry of Magic.

He wasn't even in that much pain any more. The antivenin had worked well enough to keep him from crossing the Veil. He had lost consciousness after Potter had taken the tears but waking in a pool of his own congealed blood had been sufficient impetus for him to leave. An emergency Portkey to Spinner's End, another bout of unconsciousness, and then the intercession of a particularly stubborn nuisance.

Cathal Rosier would not be told.  
She still would not look him in the eye.

Now he had more of his wits about him, he made note of her continued reticence. Whatever she was hiding, it had not flown free with the Dark Lord's death. Severus was unaccustomed to compassion, given or received, but he knew a conspiracy when he chanced across one. Nott had visited too, and Flint with his ridiculous gadabout Gryffindor boyfriend.

They'd brought him artisan chocolate.  
And a selection of new wands, all Gregorovitch-made.

There had been a sufficient supply of wands to allow every one of the Rosier-sponsored patients to re-equip themselves. Or perhaps rearm would be more appropriate. None of those recuperating in the private clinic were passive by nature. None had gone quietly. Not one were Phoenixes and, other than himself, all were unMarked. Unremarkable witches and wizards who had fought when the darkness came to claim them.

Rosier and whatever Light-minded folk she had bribed/persuaded/seduced were still campaigning against the warrants that kept people like him from going home. He'd been too ill to answer Ministry summons and then too untrusting. Perhaps he would have been nobly forgiven. Perhaps he would have received some token punishment. Severus found he had lost his taste for flagellation. Lord only knew he had done it to himself for long enough.

'If only' were poisonous words.

One of the other Wanted sat down stiffly on the padded chair beside his, with the second-best view of the mountains pinking in new green. Severus knew the man as Court as they hadn't exchanged first names and the former spy delighted in remaining ignorant. He didn't have to collect secrets any more. He might eventually be able to accumulate some illusions or at least back away from the edge of the abyss.

“They opted for Austen again.” Court lifted his bad leg to rest on the ottoman, shifting cautiously to avoid twinges. He'd switched to Muggle painkillers for the duration of his physiotherapy. He wanted enough of the discomfort to be able to feel his progress. Pain potions blotted everything until he was made of clouds. “At least it isn't the terrible American one with the Bennet sisters in hoop skirts.”

Severus made a confirmatory noise. He could speak but it hurt and there was nothing he needed to say. If their fellows were watching Muggle media as brought by their benefactress then the news that always accompanied Rosier was not good. Good news prompted planning and debate and action. The Ministry was as yet unwilling to forgive anyone who had killed an Auror during the war, even when those protectors of society had handed over Muggle-borns to Snatchers and Death Eaters.

There has to be a line, they said. There have to be standards, they said, and heads nodded even as they shuffled investigations to the side and archived documents and worked to forget there had ever been any interruption to their routine. The unpleasantness was over. No need to tread over old ground. No new trials meant also no review of old verdicts.

It said something that Court, a murderer condemned in absentia, would rather bask beside Snape, a murderer condemned by vox populi, than risk returning home. There were worse places than a quiet hospital in the Alps.


	11. Unclean

He woke to voices. For a heart-clenching moment he thought he was back there and had to force himself to open his eyes. Blue rug. Draco let his breath out with a sigh loud enough to alert the speakers to his wakefulness. They approached the bed, stepping into his field of vision. Marcus Flint with his sleeves rolled up baring muscular forearms innocent of the Dark Mark. And Cathal Rosier, who wasn't innocent of anything.

“You have to get up, Malfoy.” The witch informed him as though she was remarking on the weather. “Marcus will help you to the lavatory. You need a soak for the bruises and then he'll give you a rub down. It's the best we can do until you can accept magic again.”

“You washed me?” Draco demanded hoarsely. He was clean. He had assumed whoever had used a Scourgify. The idea someone had soaped him up revolted him.

“I nearly took your skin off with a cleansing charm meant for babies.” Hermione explained, telling herself she shouldn't be surprised he was still an entitled arse. It meant his mind was intact at least. “The ritual the Ministry uses to bind magic leaves the victim sensitised. The effect wears off in a week or so but in the meantime, we need to start your therapy.”

“Go away.” Draco said feebly, hunkering down into his blankets. He didn't want to leave the warm cocoon of the bed. Flint looked at Rosier, who nodded. The wizard marched forward and dragged the covers off, scooping up the blond without effort. Malfoy protested but neither his voice nor his arms had strength enough to fight.

Flint carried him into the hall, first to a water closet for an interlude that was both impersonal and mortifying. Rosier gave him privacy, asking with her back turned if there was any blood. The answer from the brawny wizard was 'a bit but not enough to worry'. Draco screwed his eyes shut as Flint cleaned him. He would not cry.

Thence to the bathroom, a porcelain shrine to hygiene with a boat-sized tub the altar. Rosier fiddled with the taps, adding salts and essences until the water was milky. Draco sniffed. With his head resting against Flint's chest mostly what he could smell was Flint, male, leather, and liniment, but the scent of arnica penetrated.

“How's that?” Rosier asked. Flint brought him over to the tub so he could stick his hand in to test the temperature. Bearably hot. Draco nodded. The witch again turned her back as Flint set him on his feet and removed his nightshirt. She faced him again once he was modestly under the water. “We've done this before so we have a system going. Daily baths and massages, with a potions regimen. Once you can handle an Episkey without it feeling like ants under your skin, we'll start the regenerative charms.”

“Who else?” Draco sagged against the edge of the tub. Flint propped a curved pillow around his neck so he could rest his head without strain.

“Of the Death Eaters? Not many.” There was something in her voice he didn't understand. It sounded like satisfaction. Had she been a blood traitor all along? “There was an amnesty, of sorts, for anyone Marked after Tom Riddle remade himself. It was presumed they would not have been sufficiently indoctrinated by the Old Guard before the war ended. The Ministry took steps for 'the security of the realm' however.”

“What?” He looked to his former team Captain, hoping for an explanation not a lecture.

“It's cheaper for the Ministry to bind the suspect and toss them out with the Muggles.” Flint said tersely. He weathered a look from Rosier. A little more context was necessary. “Unless they were really Dark, most had their sentences commuted to ostracism. They can't enter magical places, can't do magic, can't tell the Muggles about magic and so forth.”

“It's a nasty bit of reciprocity for the Muggle-borns begging in the street under the Registry.” Rosier's tone made him perk up. She was angry. Truly, crusading angry. But not at him.

“My mother?” Draco asked urgently.

“Under house arrest. I've let her know we found you.” Her reassuring words made his chest ache. “The Ministry is almost certainly reading her post so I'll have to cipher your letters if you want to write anything lengthy. Short messages we can send as classifieds in the Prophet or adverts on the wireless. Jordan has his own show. He slips things in for us on the quiet.”

“Lee Jordan is helping?” Perhaps he had run mad. He could understand her words but their meaning eluded him. Had he lost his wits and was even now dribbling and dreaming in a fetid corner of his cell?

“Lee is an ethical person. Excitable, but with a very well developed sense of right and wrong.” Rosier looked at him with eyes like agate. All he could do was nod in acceptance. Jordan was sans peur et sans reproche. “I'll leave you to Marcus. We think you're the only one being released but they've done a double drop before and we've missed people.”

When she'd left with a click of the door, Flint made himself comfortable on the floor. The bathroom was big enough he could have stretched out full length for a kip. Draco steeped and stared at the wall. He felt made of glass. One firm tap would shatter him. He sat there soaking and by inches his body became his again. Sore and poorly made but his.


	12. Undaunted

There was more than one entrance to Diagon Alley. You had to own property within the mercantile complex to be worthy of access. Own not lease. And to own, you had to be an acknowledged descendant of the ancestral covenant who had first concealed the alleys. Human or goblin, the important factor was 'acknowledged'. The warders of the covenant could, perhaps, graciously allow newcomers, usually influential half-bloods, to petition for that coveted inclusion.

Or you could have your name from birth in a very old book in a dusty room in the Ministry because that made you special. Cathal Machtilde Rosier had such a name in such a book. With the change of government, the Department of Heritage and Lineage had skittered back into obscurity blinking like a stunned mole. The books were still there, though.

The Rosiers had dabbled in real estate all over the continent but it was the Anglo-Saxon Selwyns who had bolstered the protections of the little trading post near the Thames. The family owned two shops, an apartment block, and a third of a pub, which was nicely enough for a ward token for the private entrances.

Hermione strolled into the diffidently deserted Knockturn Alley, no one was keen to be noticed, and into Diagon proper. There was a little more business here and a touch more cautious optimism that the worst was over. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was jauntily repainted with windows polished bright. She pushed the door open, instinctively ducking as something leaped out at her before exploding in a pop of fragrant smoke.

Gardenia, possibly. Hermione did not sniff to verify or comment. She was on the Weasley twins' good side courtesy of lent helmets but she didn't want to push their gratitude too hard. Everyone knew she had been Head Girl under the Carrows and while she had been publicly exonerated, and hadn't that been a cringe-worthy announcement, many saw her as a Snake in the grass.

Fred noticed her quickly. It could have been chance or it could have been impressively paranoid security that had him theatrically stepping out of a cupboard with a lavish bow and a knowing wink.

“We are honoured that a member of the august body of the Wizengamot deigns to visit our humble shop.” Fred doffed the top hat he wasn't wearing then escorted her into the little side-room with an ostentatious lack of discretion. No one could accuse them of having a clandestine meeting when he all but set off fireworks. The scattered customers chuckled or shrugged, more interested in the wares.

“Next time I'll bring a crier.” Hermione remarked as he left the door ajar. Nothing illicit here.

“We've had two different Ministry bods come prod-nosing by.” Fred remarked after he had cast a Muffliato and a Conversation Charm to generate fake chatter to cover the white noise. “One might've been for bodgy taxes but two looks like we're being eyeballed.”

“There's a push to crack down on illegal gambling. Your names came up linked to Bagman, who's been caught by the Dutch running scams on Muggle tourists.” The continental magical governments were not happy with the British Ministry's decision to exile their low-risk prisoners. More than one tetchy reference to the transportation of convicts had crossed her desk.

“We haven't dealt with Ludo for years. Not since he cheated us after the World Cup.” For which neither Fred nor George had forgiven him. If it hadn't been for Harry, they'd have lost their dream.

“Get your books in order. Hire a reputable accountant.” Hermione bit her tongue before she added 'try your second cousin'. Throwing a disregarded Squib relative in the face of nominal allies was not tactful. “You need to tin-plate your arse.”

“Why, Miss Rosier, I never knew you had such an interest in my...” Fred's innuendo stalled as a hidden door swung open emitting billowing smoke and his twin.

“Well, that's done it for the day.” George flapped his arms before patting a smouldering lapel. “The formula works, nearly, but it's not subtle.”

“We need subtle.” She flicked her wand, mimicking an air cleansing working Moppet used. The result was the same but as a human, Hermione needed a focus to channel her intent. Elf magic left fewer traces and those touches it did leave were often overlooked. The room cleared with a lingering fresh scent.

“Nice.” George checked his jacket for cinders, masking a charm against eavesdroppers with a casual brush of his hand over the wand in his inner pocket. Habit of caution rather than expectation of surveillance but there was a feeling, a something in the air. “We've asked around.”

“Collated a list.” Fred confirmed.

“Left your name out of it.” They were in good with the older Gryffindors, even if that rankled. The Order of the Phoenix had never been big. Lots of sympathy, lots of stories of help now. Not so much then even from the House of the Brave. It was depressing, honestly. Other than Percy and Oliver, the only wizard in that Year to have come back to the Castle to fight had been Marcus Flint! No one else had wanted to know or been in a position to pitch in.

“Probably for the best.” Hermione had asked the twins to poll their friends and acquaintances for any run-ins with Death Eaters or Snatchers whether they'd reported the incidents to the Ministry or not. She wanted as much grassroots intel as she could collect as she wasn't the only one to suspect the DMLE of 'grooming' their case files.

“Honestly, it's not that bad.” George reassured, wanting to hear the words himself. It was better. 'It' whatever 'it' was had definitely been worse. So buck and chin up, right? 

“Not a short list though.” Fred had to be honest. The untidy aftermath of the war was not something they could laugh off easily. Their dad had been offered early retirement for 'stress'. Percy was back to shuffling paper. Ron was working so hard he was falling asleep into his dinner. “I can see why you're not expecting much to change.”

“I'm not a pessimist.” Hermione objected. She wasn't. She was sure she could make the world better. Eventually. “However, the light at the end of the tunnel may be the Ferryman's lantern.”


	13. Unmade

Theo looked up from the parchment as Cathal entered the dining room. He had been more staring than reading so willingly put the letter aside. She noticed though, quirking an eyebrow at him as she poured herself tea, added milk but eschewed the sugar. Sugars, the wizard corrected himself. His former elves were exercising their liberty by over-catering. Milk, cream, lemon slices, honey, brown and white sugar, and more. There was a sandwich roster to avoid a repeat of the Crumpet War.

“I asked everyone. Three of the Nott elves would like to join my father.” Theo had offered to reunite his household staff with the Old Master hoping it would help them recover from their eviction. The severance of the bond with lineage and property had hit the eldest hard. The Notts did not share the Black tradition of executing their elves. Nott elves too old to serve were allowed to retire to the interior of the house, to do as they wished without the obligation of waiting attendance. Some lingered, merging into the Manor's magic while others faded, dissipating as fey did back to Tir na nOg.

“Tuesday would be best, I think.” Hermione consulted her diary, wishing the protective enchantments she'd devised for phones worked on computers. Having a spreadsheet with all her toing and froing would free her from juggling journals. Unfortunately, until the computer charms were reliable, everything had to be pen and paper. No more quills at least.

“I'll keep the trip brief.” Once Cathal released the elves from their bond to her, they only needed to wash themselves to be ritually clean for the re-binding. A quick Apparition to Monaco to make the exchange in the lobby of the posh hotel where his father was not staying then an immediate return. “I'd like not to look too much of a hypocrite. Susan has graciously not mentioned my father is still on the Ministry's Wanted list.”

“No one expects you to turn in your own dad.” It was hypocritical, she couldn't deny it. Siglinde had spared her the same quandary, which the Prophet had published in lurid detail. The Ministry had released the photographs of the blood rite, which they had rather regretted when it came out how much Lady Rosier had done for the Light. Splashing a seventeen year old's dead granny across the front page had stirred up sympathy for Cathal, enough at the time for her to avoid any charges. Blood magic compulsions were much easier to prove than the Imperius.

“I rather think some do.” Theo smiled ruefully. “Can't blame them.” He tucked the parchment away. Perhaps he could salve his conscience that only three of the Nott elves wanted to serve his father. Tristan Nott would certainly take it as a snub. “Any progress with the Trace powder?”

“We're on track, though it's slow going avoiding any physical link to the subject. Being generic in this case complicates the matrix.” Hermione had done most of the work on the theory so she knew how the tracking substance should work but the Weasleys' manufacturing refinements were quirky. “We want undetectable, which adds to development time.”

There were other methods of surveillance but all the old standards had countermeasures. They needed something new. And quiet, and lingering, and long distance. Once they could reliably follow their targets regardless of disguise then surveillance became so much easier. They were not yet committed to any permanent solution but if that choice was made then Hermione wanted to be able to clean up after themselves.

“You could fund research overtly. There are always grant proposals being submitted to, and rejected by, the Ministry.” Theo had learned administration and management at his father's knee. The Malfoys flaunted their power like their blasted peacocks. The Notts kept to the shadows in keeping with their name. His hand strayed to the parchment, no more than a twitch of his fingers, enough he had to admit to himself that he was out of sorts.

“Alright. I'll sit in on the grant committee, whatever they're called.” She made a note. “My chart of Ministry organisation is starting to look like a conspiracy board, all coloured string and pins. Any reform there is going to need a machete.” So much red tape. Hermione sipped her tea, regarding Theo over the lip. “Problem?”

“Not as such.” He straightened, smoothing his robes. “Madam Radnott wrote with some helpful advice. She is concerned about me and you, and indeed about us.” Theo wished the elderly witch didn't make him feel like he was eight with chocolate on his face.

“On the theme of there being an 'us'?” Hermione inquired diffidently. Right back to social awkwardness. A pure-blood body had not mystically given her poise or sangfroid. She had never been good with feelings.

“Yes.” Theo sighed. “She thinks a union between our Houses a sensible idea. With a slight suggestion than we may be 'already enjoying some of the benefits'.” He quirked a smile at her. She smiled back, and there was the girl he had stood beside through awful parties and frightened confessions. His comrade-in-arms. “I would be honoured.”

“You're just barely twenty-one.” Hermione protested.

“And you are younger than I am. You would hardly be robbing the cradle.” There was something in her tone that made that suggestion, as though she had ethical qualms. As though there was something quite badly wrong. “How old do you feel?”


	14. Unknowable

“It's gone to shit, hasn't it?” Draco asked of the wall, the ether, and his former team Captain on another day in another bath.

“It has.” Flint confirmed, not mentioning money because that was vulgar or being spat on because ditto. If it were up to him, he'd be in Canada on a Quidditch pitch. Unfortunately, once the worst of the war had got out, many Ministries had not wanted to be seen to be giving shelter to blood purists. His residency had been cancelled pending reapplication, which was still pending. “At least it's the sort of shit you can wait out. We have a plan.”

“Rosier's plan.” His wits might have gone begging but he knew that much with certainty.

“Oh yes.” The muscular wizard chuckled darkly. “We have strategy meetings and briefings. We're working together.” He sneered though only with his mouth. “Without Cathal half our House would be starving in some barn or be in a shallow grave with a hole in the head.” Their eyes met and Flint saw Malfoy didn't understand. “The Muggle government knows all. The Ministry had to kiss their ring to get their help to keep the Statute of Secrecy. The price of that was their involvement in the clean up.”

“I don't understand.” Draco tried to sort the pieces in his head. The Ministry was letting the Muggles kill wizards?

“Neither do I, frankly. Zabini's clued in and he deigned to explain it before he cut ties and rabbited to Italy but most of the details went over my head.” This time the sneer was in his voice too. “It's all part of the standard reintegration briefing for the newly released.”

“Zabini's Zabini but Rosier's Cathal?” He'd noticed the change in formality.

“Cabal policy, to be egalitarian.” Flint didn't personally like it. He wasn't affable by nature. He did see the point, though. Team unity and all that. “We have to leave behind the old divisions if we want to survive. Anyone who can't cope with that can take their chances in the wilderness.” He shrugged. “Warrington tried. We think he was the wizard who died in the Chunnel. Incinerated by the wards.”

“Fuck.” Draco commented. He'd had nightmares about fire for weeks after the Room of Hidden Things. Still did.

“You won't be up for it for yet.” The segue was idle, a change of topic to something more important than the suicide of a stubborn fool. “When you are, consider that all the babies born to suppressed parents have had early accidental magic. Powerful and early. Four in almost three years. No squibs.” They couldn't use contraceptive charms but Muggle methods worked once you got the hang of them. Not everyone bothered, reckoning the risks were low. They'd been surprised. “Handfast for decency, of course.”

Draco laughed at the incongruity. Flint could swallow being chums with a blood traitor, being a pariah, and apparently lying down with random witches for the sake of magical children, but he cavilled at illegitimate magical children.

“Who'd have you?” Draco asked with less courtesy than he should to a wizard who could snap him in half.

“Alicia is considering it.” Flint answered without rancour. Olly had asked her especially to help them, keen to have little Quidditch players. The Spinnets were an acceptably old family and Alicia's maternal lineage through the Ganakas was ancient. “Though she's not suppressed.”

“What?” He blinked and stared, sure he was drifting off into delirium again. “Alicia who?”

“Spinnet. Chaser.” He levelled a cold look on the blond. “You will extend her every courtesy.”

“Shaking up with Gryffindors?” Draco treasured the pathetic flare of derision he felt. It was something; a splash of colour in the gloom.

“Hufflepuffs too.” Marcus rested his elbows on his knees, absently rubbing the softening callous on his lead hand. He was flying as often as he could but it wasn't the same as training. He needed to keep at it or he'd be so out of condition by the time he got back to the League he'd be laughed off his team. “Susan Bones is arm in arm with Cathal.”

“Bones and Rosier?” Draco raised a hand to brush hair out of his eyes and clumsily smacked himself on the nose by accident. The automatic tears told him he was awake not dreaming nonsense. “Working together?”

“They're women of principle.” Flint asserted. He couldn't truly believe it either. His skills were with small unit tactics and keeping people on target. He was a sergeant not a general, in Muggle parlance. “Scorned women of principle.”

“I don't understand.” The words were mostly groan.

“Wait for the briefing. It makes more sense as a narrative.” When he'd sat through his introduction to the brave new world, he had boggled. The world was much bigger than their pseudo-civil war on their tiny island. Not that Britain didn't have enough problems of its own already. His life had been much easier when he was just a thug on a broom.

Draco shut his eyes. He kept them shut and let the darkness hide him when Flint decided it was time to pull him out of the tub. He was carried like a swaddled infant to a nearby room that smelled of eucalyptus, sandalwood, and something lemony he thought was maybe vervain. Not sharp enough to be actual citrus whatever it was.

The massage bed he was put on was sun warmed. He opened his eyes when his face didn't touch the cloth. There was a hole shaped there so he could lie on his stomach with his neck straight. Draco stared at the bare floorboards below him as Flint exchanged wet towel for dry, putting the latter across his hips for modesty. If he had the energy, he might have laughed.

Being touched was so unfamiliar it hurt. The massage was thorough and intellectually Draco knew it must be doing him good but his skin still crawled. Flint's fingers dug into knots so habitual the relaxing muscles stung. He screwed his eyes shut again, imagining himself as laundry in a mangle being twisted and rinsed. He did laugh then. He'd never get clean.


	15. Unbegotten

“So I have not in fact ever met Cathal Rosier?” Theo liked to clarify the important details before settling down to the nitty-gritty. He had listened without interruption to Cathal... to Hermione as she regaled him with what he would very much like to think an insane fable. He didn't think so. He didn't like it but he didn't doubt her.

“Very few people have. Piers Rosier convinced or compelled Derica to go into hiding with her daughter then cast some sort of memory ritual, according to Bonica.” Hermione confirmed simply. “You can ask any of the Rosier elves if you want corroboration.”

“I think in this instance I will take your word for it.” He couldn't conjure up a smile, wry or otherwise. Theo couldn't even accuse her of lying. Whatever magic was involved in the loop, horrendous, complicated, archaic, incredible, was not unbelievable. The Dark Lord had decanted himself from a cauldron. The witch he knew, the woman he loved, hadn't changed. Which prompted some uncomfortable self-assessment.

“I don't know that you should. I wake up some days wondering if I've imagined the whole thing. I'd do it again if I had to.” Hermione paused, considering then opted again for honesty. “A lot more people would die if I went around again. Two goes at war have abraded my compassion somewhat.”

“Yes, I can see how it would.” Theo let his mind order itself for a long moment. This revelation would require time to settle. “Thank you for telling me.” He pushed that sentiment forward. It was polite, after all. “Not something I would want to find out suddenly about my wife. That magnitude of secrecy from an intimate would utterly destroy trust.”

“That's been a big part of me keeping silent. Moppet knows, and Hogwarts of course, and Firenze suspects something but I haven't told anyone.” She shifted, wanting to ask a thousand questions but holding back because being hit over the head with this crazy would rattle anyone. “I'm an Animagus too, if we're in the confessional.”

“Not quite on the same scale.” He'd sat down some time during the tale and stood now to pace, getting as far as the window before staring into the mists. “The Rosier wards respond to you.”

“Pure blood.” No power on earth could have kept the smirk off her face. “Impure thoughts.”

“That does raise philosophical conundra.” Theo remarked to the foggy glass. “Granger always was powerful. How angry would you be if I reconciled all of this to a grudging acceptance of her worthiness?”

“Granger was a swot. She had something to prove and people were trying to kill her. She pushed herself.” Hermione would've liked to go back in time to tell her young self to take a moment to breathe except there hadn't been a moment to take. “You can do as you like. I'm not going to let a hypocritical, patronising arsehole court me, however.”

“But I could so graciously forgive you for rubbing my nose in my superiority being an artefact of lineage not heritage.” This was hardly the first time he'd had to acknowledge the Death Eater party line was flawed. He wasn't a zealot. He would've taken the Mark because refusal was annihilation. Failure also. He had defied the Dark Lord quietly, for his family, and for a girl.

“I've no appetite for absolution. I'm not going to hairshirt myself to Harry and Ron. Hermione Granger is dead. I'd like her to rest in peace.” She folded her hands neatly on the table, back straight, and expression bland. “But again, you can do as you like. Except blackmail, because if you go that route it'll be 'publish and be damned' and fuck you.”

“There is no need to be coarse.” Theo chided, hearing his own ancestors in his priggish tone. Cathal looked at him shorn and he sighed. “No blackmail. No recriminations. That would be poor gratitude.”

“I don't want you to be grateful!” Hermione snapped. “I don't want any grovelling.”

“I have no plans to.” He turned from the window. “I will need some time to think this over. Selfishly. I need to be sure in my own feelings.” Vacillation was bad for the character. “I am not angry or betrayed. Just confused.” Theo kept a grimace off his face with effort. “I don't quite know what I am confused about.”

“I get that.” Battening down her emotions, Hermione gestured at the door. “You are welcome to stay at another Rosier property while you think things over. Esne will help you, I'm sure. Take whatever time you need.”

“Thank you.” Theo said, and left quietly.


	16. Unfathomed

Hannah wiped the bar down, grimacing at the stickiness. Old Tom had ceased to see the grime. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't grubby, not the way the Hog's Head had been, she was still amazed no one had died from Aberforth's cooking, but it was shabby. All the shine had gone off just like it had with its proprietor. Tom was tired and done with people.

She could understand that oh so well.

But she wasn't tired.  
She was angry.

Hannah felt she could be angry forever. Her rage had built slowly. She hadn't even been aware of it at first; little things stacking one atop the other. By Fifth Year when she finally had something to put all that whatever it was towards, she'd shrugged off her own feelings. Of course she was upset, Umbridge was unfair. Of could she was cross, the Inquisitorial Squad were bullies. Of course she was frustrated, no one was listening.

She'd never thought the absence of response or of commiseration was endemic. Never believed that the society she had inherited, the world she should work to make a better place, unafraid of toil, would actually push back against improvement. Making things better was just a matter of chipping in, picking up the slack, people would join in to help because of course everyone understood the social compact. Because everyone wasn't selfish arseholes just out for themselves.

Not everyone, Hannah reminded herself as she scrubbed the charmed cloth against the beer residue. Magical brewing was a lot like potion-making. Less froufrou intellectual, Snape would never cook up some wort just for a hot summer day, but still magical. Magically sticky and resistant to Tergeo. Scourgify didn't even start.

It was late, past closing time for the kitchen though she kept kettles hot on the stove for the Aurors. Men mostly she knew from school or knew of her from schoolmates or from other nights well past leaving where they could get a drink and a smile. More drinks than smiles of late, with a side order of hushed conversations in corner booths.

Hannah was a good listener.  
Better listener now she had eavesdropping charms on all the tables.

She didn't feel guilty. She hadn't tried to rationalise her actions as anything but spying and still she felt she was doing the right thing. The gossip and snippets of intel she fed to Susan, Justin, and Rosier were going to help bring criminals to justice. Had already helped.

Rosier had given her the memory of Dolohov and Holt discussing her mother's murder. She hadn't watched it yet. Hannah wasn't sure when she would be up to watching it. She flat out hadn't believed Susan when she said the Slytherin had submitted an attestation to the Ministry naming names. So she'd asked Ron, who'd promised to look into it then hadn't, then she'd asked Dean, who'd confirmed it.

But her appeal to reopen the case had been refused. She'd put in an application for a document review so she could get the details of Rosier's list without risking Dean being censured for snooping in the files. That application had gone walkies. The next one was still lost in bureaucratic purgatory. Months and months of nothing, months of the agony of waiting.

One chat to Susan and the vial was in her hand two days later.


	17. Unbeknownst

Unlike many of the other parolees, Malfoy had not demanded answers. He'd not asked many questions either though Flint reported he'd whinged a bit. Which, considering how much of a prat he'd been at school, was remarkably restrained. Bulstrode thought it was more likely he was just exhausted rather than amenable. She'd not been impressed with what he'd seen of Malfoy in Sixth Year and he'd definitely not improved in her acquaintance post-war.

Hermione had listened to the opinions of her impromptu medical staff and had read the report from the actual medical staff; a French Medi-Wizard attached to the convalescent clinic. His assessment of Malfoy's condition was surprisingly positive. The blond was in a deplorable state but his reserves and psyche had been so low going into Azkaban that many of the enervating effects simply hadn't changed anything. He wasn't a rabid fanatic in need of quietening. He'd already given up.

That said, he would need extensive rehabilitation, which would not be happening at the clinic. Severus Snape had been a spy and had done his penance. Malfoy had very publicly not stood with the righteous, something La Dame Rosier could not deny. The magical cost of his oath-breaking was clear too. He would need to stay with her for that damage to mend.

Hermione was less than enthusiastic about rooming with Malfoy. Ministry red-tape notwithstanding, she'd intended to stabilise him then pack him off to the countryside. Long term cohabitation did not appeal. But she had done worse with worse so she'd suck it up and soldier on. First step in the New Deal was explaining to Malfoy about bootstraps and the pulling up of.

She wanted him to think of his room as a sanctuary so she'd opted to have the little chat in the dining room where she hoped the bookcases and the tea urn would convey 'workspace'. Flint had escorted Malfoy down then left to enjoy Paris with Oliver. The pair had an interview later with the French Ministry, who Marcus hoped would vouch for him to the Canadians.

“Help yourself to a sandwich.” Hermione offered, batting a hand to the tray by the urn.

“Not hungry.” Malfoy replied. She tried hard not to hear his tone as sulky.

“Loss of appetite is a known side effect of the dense layering of the Azkaban wards.” The witch observed, eyeing her vassal critically. “That might even be true, but there's also no mandated diet. The wizarding world wouldn't know a food pyramid from Khufu's.”

Malfoy stared at her like a trapped animal as she approached and flinched when she hooked a finger in the sleeve of his Oxford shirt. She didn't wand to touch the ring of red scarring around his wrists. When he had been released, the wounds had been Inflamed and weeping. Even now the abrasions were discoloured from the curses on the manacles. Hermione didn't ask if it hurt. It had to.

“We documented this.” Her gaze rose to his. “We did it without your face in the pictures.” His affronted stare persisted. “Susan is petitioning for better custody conditions. Proof of inhumane treatment will help.”

“No need to exert yourself on my account.” Draco lifted his chin, a shadow of his old arrogance.

“I have been repeatedly informed by several people that they are expressly not doing it on your behalf.” Hermione stepped back. Other than the scars, or rather other than the scars she could see, Malfoy looked better. Not well, he wouldn't look well for months, but improved enough she didn't feel a prat for her lack of sympathy.

“I owe you fealty.” He conceded bitterly.

“You owe me nothing.” She snapped back. “You owe yourself time to recover from your own stupidity. I made the choice to get you out of Azkaban. That is on me. Everything else is your problem, with the possible exception of a general social obligation not to be an arse.”

“Your manners continue to be ladylike.” Draco sat up, not liking what he was hearing and not wishing to admit it was also a relief. He had expected to be cajoled into obedience, possibly. He wasn't sure about much.

“Oh, I can be more vulgar if you wish.” Hermione grinned like a skull. “But that is my choice and right now what I am choosing is common bloody sense. So, you can stay here to recover with people willing to help you because I am not going to risk shifting you somewhere else and having to lie to the Ministry about it. I'm already sailing close to the wind.”

“Flint said there would be a briefing.” He subsided, tired simply by repartee.

“There is a lot to know. Most of it matters if you're volunteering, which you won't be able to do until you're medically and mentally fit.” Not that anyone would be happy to see him join but that was an argument for later. “The British Muggle government pushed for more openness from the British Ministry. Death Eaters killed enough people that keeping the Statute of Secrecy was beyond the reach of the Ministry under Scrimgeour and impossible under Thicknesse.”

“So the Muggles know about magic?” Cold sweat prickled down his back.

“Not the general population. Many more of the secret services and the policing agencies are involved now. The Death Eaters are listed as a neo-Nazi terrorist organisation. There is mundane legal recourse to charge wizards, and sentences are enforced on the magical side. Wands are now listed as deadly weapons, which allows deadly force.” Hermione paused for breath. She didn't like thinking about this far less talking about it. The seed of a dystopian nightmare. “If you are caught in the United Kingdom, you will be in serious trouble. You're on a Top Secret Watch List.”

“What can Muggles do to me?” The ghost of an old sneer flitted across his mouth. She was sure the expression was pure reflex. His face was ashen.

“Not a lot, not if you're quick.” Hermione had to be honest in that regard. “However, a significant number of Muggle-borns joined Mi5 and the elite Scotland Yard counter-terrorism units in the wake of the war. They are policing the magical world from the other side. This is exactly what you get for being racist arseholes for generations.”


	18. Unhallowed

That statue was gone. 'Muggles in Their Rightful Place' had been replaced without ceremony. 'Spirit of Cooperation' was back albeit a little chipped around the edges. Hermione paused to reflect on historical revisionism and wondered if she would feel better if there'd been a fall of Communism style statue toppling celebration. An acknowledgement of a significant change in government.

The Ministry was eternal, permanent. A random quote from her... from Granger's mother's favourite television show popped into her head. 'Power goes with permanence. Impermanence is impotence. Rotation is castration.' Maybe what the bureaucrats feared wasn't change so much as transition. Everything had to be always have been.

“Rosier.” The greeting was not friendly but took pains to be polite.

“Longbottom.” The greeting was reciprocally par on the affable and courteous axes.

“Susan said you would be willing to sign off on my resignation from the Aurors. I need two Wizengamot members unrelated to me.” Neville had made the mistake of approaching his grandmother first, thinking that being a war hero would finally convince her he was capable of making decisions for himself. She might be proud of him now but she still had expectations.

“Certainly, I will.” Hermione confirmed. “Is the two signatures a new thing?” She hadn't seen legislation to that effect passed. Had she missed a notice? Been cut out of a meeting? She had so many plates in the air, and sitting in the Wizengamot most days made watching paint dry look like Mardi Gras.

“Informal Departmental protocol.” He answered blandly, having wrung out all his frustration already with Hannah and then again with Susan. They understood. How it felt to hit their head against the wall, how all their work seemed like treading water. All progress had stalled. “The Head and Deputy don't want us to leave.”

“You didn't ask Weasley?” She was surprised. Longbottom's sharply indrawn breath as he restrained himself gave her the answer.

“My grandmother has personally requested no one let me 'skive off'. That now we are done with Voldemort, I can carry on my parents' tradition properly.” Neville was sure she meant it as a compliment, as a show of confidence he could follow in his father's footsteps. She had been unpleasantly surprised when he broached the subject. “No one else I've approached other than Susan has been willing.”

“Madam Longbottom already thinks poorly of me. She blocked my last motion.” Hermione had not expected that legislation to pass on the first go but she had been dismayed to see who had quashed it.

“She thinks you're trouble.” He wasn't sure about Rosier himself. Too much of a Snake to be trusted, too clever by half. And too close to Malfoy. The DMLE was rife with rumours about what she'd bartered in exchange for the young Death Eater. Everything from speculation about ritual magic, everyone knew Siglinde Rosier had been a blood witch, to plain old traditional bribery had been touted.

“She would be right.” The accompanying grin was gratified. Hermione liked being trouble. On that theme, she decided to venture some conspiracy. “I'll right your resignation now, no strings, but I think you could help us by staying with the Aurors. Be our someone on the inside.”

“Who is us?” Neville asked suspiciously.

“Susan, Justin, and I, and other like-minded folk.” Hermione was casual. She had meant it about the signature.

“Not your sort of friends, I would've said.” He was aware the House of Bones was in a voting bloc with the House of Rosier on some progressive issues though when he'd asked Susan she'd been vague. Evasive enough he'd wondered if the two were having an affair.

“Strange bedfellows.” She shrugged,

“I'll think about it.” Neville hedged, wanting to be shot of the Department and the whole mire. But if Susan and Justin were up to something, well, he should at least ask them. His right hand itched for a sword.


	19. Unregarded

George gave the trace powder to Hannah when he took her out to lunch. Hannah smuggled it into the Ministry past Security because the wizard on-duty drank at the Leaky and always waved her through. Susan picked up the package in the Ladies loo on the second flood then scattered the contents over every memo, directive, notice of apprisal, and report that crossed her desk. All of which she sent winging onwards through the Ministry.

The Head of the House of Bones had a consultation meeting with the Head of the House of Rosier, where they played pass the parcel. It was Rosier who spread the trace powder through the upper echelons. She had plausibly unremarkable cause to visit Umbridge's office. As a Slytherin, Cathal Rosier could be presumed to have no significant grudge against the former High Inquisitor. The visit was not long, just enough to hand deliver an amended letter of interest, but Hermione left certain that Umbridge had touched the doped parchment.

Distribution of the trace powder had to be scattershot to avoid notice or suspicion. Confirming and limiting the Traces would come later after significant work. The Weasleys were confident their product would last several months, allowing for reapplication or diffusal so they could pick their targets or allow the marking to dissipate into the background magic of the Ministry.

Hermione wanted Umbridge. Many of the Toad's victims concurred. However, striking at a high profile target would cut them off from many of the minor criminals who would escape justice exactly because they were not well known. This movement was not about revenge. Revenge was where it started, in that hot acid bitterness but Hammurabi's eye did not lead to long term success.

She was on her way to the Department of Heritage and Lineage to spread the trace powder among the rarefied volumes to which she had privileged access when she ran into Harry Potter. He was ducking out of a side corridor clearly trying to avoid notice when he crossed her path. Hermione had a moment of jamais vu as though looking upon him with new eyes.

He was tired; his mouth a tight, thin line. Something or more likely many somethings were weighing on him. She had just taken breath to ask him what was wrong when he looked at her; a flat disgruntled glare that shut down all queries. He took a step away from her, visibly squaring his shoulders to be polite.

“Rosier.”

“Potter.”

“You are aware you have to report contact with any Death Eaters, right?” The Auror said challengingly, his tone suggesting he knew she knew he knew she was lax in that regard.

“I saw Malfoy this morning. I see him every morning.” Hermione answered then continued in order to cover her arse. “Snape too, most weeks. Notices of which I duly report to ensure as a Wizengamot representative that I am unbesmirched.”

“There's a list of Marked ex-Slytherins, a watchlist.” Potter inspected her, certain she was up to something but frustratingly unable to find out what it was. No one was talking. He'd even leaned on Mundungus Fletcher to no avail.

“A very extensive watchlist considering DMLE inactivity on prosecutions.” She observed, aware from Hannah that several Aurors were taking it upon themselves to monitor the released Death Eaters privately. “There've been complaints from the French and German Ministries about your Department overstepping themselves.”

“Been bending your ear, have they?” His voice sharpened as she caught his interest.

“Have they not been yours?” Hermione arched an eyebrow in an expression she had rarely used when she had been her Gryffindor self. Even buried, she was uneasy around Granger's close friends. “No sanctioned international cooperation between law enforcement agencies?”

“You sound like a Bond movie.” And there it was, that tendril of wariness she often got from non-pure-bloods. It was a code-switching hiccough. She wasn't supposed to understand the mundane. To be fair, most magically raised were snobbishly content in their ignorance but the surprise showed the cultural gap needed bridging from both sides.

“Just so long as I don't sound like a Bond villain.” She smirked.

“What are you up to, Rosier? I know you are doing something. I know you're getting people out of Britain, and not just Malfoy. There's a warrant for Nott Snr. Don't tell me you don't know where he is.” Harry knew more than he wanted to about the private lives of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the less august pure families. He kept finding he was related to the ratbags.

“I solemnly promise...” She nearly said 'swear' and Potter would certainly notice that phrasing. “I do not know where Tristan Nott resides or frequents.”

“Nice use of Obliviate, I'll bet.” He said sourly. He shook his head, not willing to credit her denial. “Don't make me put a watch on you.”

“I'm already under surveillance.” Hermione informed him and saw with misgiving that he was surprised. Potter hid it well but he had been unaware there were peepers peeping.

“I wish I could trust you.” Harry lamented. But he couldn't. There was just something about Rosier that rubbed him the wrong way. She hadn't even done anything to him. She'd even believed him in Fifth Year when everyone except Hermione had thrown mud. But. His instincts scratched at him. There was something off about her.

“Well, you can't.” She said honestly, and he couldn't be sure if that was a lie either.


	20. Unbounded

It was a wet Thursday in June when Theo came back. He knocked on the front door rather than Apparating. Millicent let him in as she was leaving, giving him a frosty look. In riposte, he raised an eyebrow at her capris. Short trousers were for children. She gave him a nonchalant middle finger as she strolled off towards the Seine.

Bonica acknowledged his existence in the hallway. Put out by his unorthodox arrival, the elderly elf pointed to the dining room where he would find the lady of the house but did not escort him there. He could complain of her snub to her Mistress if he liked. Cathal would do precisely nothing to punish the house elf and they both knew it.

He rapped two knuckles on the ajar door before letting himself in; a courtesy in case he was intruding on anything private. The witch was alone with a bulwark of tomes ringed around her on the table. She looked up, giving him a nod, before hunting for a bookmark. Judging from the crockery arrayed like a besieging army, Cathal had been at it for a while.

“Something new?” Theo asked. She hadn't sent an owl with any correspondence or documentation in the last two days.

“Just checking extradition boundaries. Not all the European Ministries have updated their borders recently. There was a slew of revisions immediately after Grindelwald but almost nothing since.” Hermione grimaced at the published ordinances she had trawled. A database would have been a godsend. “Don't ask about the Balkans.”

“Is that part of the world likely to be difficult?” The general query provoked a grumbled non-committal noise. “That bad?”

“It matters if we can involve the various Ministries but since the collapse of Yugoslavia, no one is talking to each other.” She gritted her teeth against frustrated obscenities. The British Ministry was no longer willing to prosecute but others Ministries might be if they could prove crimes against their citizens. “I want to exhaust the legal routes before we trot out the Wickerman.”

“Am I interrupting?” Theo did not want to rush what he had to say.

“No, it's fine.” Hermione stood and looked directly at him. “I'm listening.”

“I have not crossed your threshold with magic. I bring only myself.” He stated. Theo turned his hands over so she could see his empty palms. “I pay you no homage and ask none in return. I am here before you as an equal, a peer and compatriot.” The ritual phrasing carried him through the declaration. “I, Theodore, ask you, Cathal, consent to court.”

“Just me?” She was surprised. There were many and varied formulae to start a relationship between magical people. The one Theo had picked was essentially 'me Tarzan, you Jane'. “No alliance between families or Houses?”

“Not to begin with. Just us. All the monogrammed linen and heraldic tapestries can come later, or not at all.” He took a deep breath, centring himself. “It's not traditional and perhaps I'd feel different if I still had the Manor but I would like to marry you, whoever you are, rather than match my lineage advantageously or make a great alliance between Nott and Rosier.”

“I think I could bear it to be just us.” Hermione ventured after a pause she hoped didn't feel too long. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Neither do I, outside the etiquette.” Theo admitted. “One of the benefits of a personal match is we can dispense with chaperones.” He smiled at her expression. “It would be slightly awkward for you as the Head of your House to chaperone yourself. Rather too existential.”

“I'd like to keep it low-key. No fashionable restaurants or exclusive night spots. I've read my name in print too often.” She didn't want lose her temper and actually finally murder Rita Skeeter, who had registered herself as an Animagus after Granger's funeral. There were no holds on her in regards to Cathal's private life.

“I heartily agree.” Having informed his father of his intentions in regards to Miss Rosier, with no mention of her previous life, Theo had no one else he needed to tell. “Perhaps a quiet dinner with the Radnotts in a few weeks or a home ritual on the solstice. I think it would be nice.”

“Me too.” Hermione would like someone materteral to give a damn about her existence. She was decidedly short on kin.


	21. Undeterred

“We have a sighting in Munich. The magical community there is small and disinclined to follow edicts from Berlin. They haven't even listed him as Wanted.” Hermione showed a grainy image from a security camera. An tall man in dark blue robes. She contrasted the picture with its magically enhanced version, stripping the target of his charmed disguise.

“That's near enough for a closer look.” Justin Finch-Fletchley smiled photogenically. He'd made a nice little career out of being handsome. Modelling let him travel unremarked by either magical or mundane police agencies. No one queried him flitting about or socialising with a wide catchment of people. “I know an artist to lives near there. I can lounge on his boat for a few days taking in the sights to get confirmation.”

The Hufflepuff looked around the table. His co-conspirators nodded collectively. Their charms and tech were good, cutting edge in some cases. They had used the Weasleys' Trace Powder to track anyone with a link to a target, hoping for a trail they could follow. 

In Ballard Holt's case, his great-uncle was a respected Arithmancer fiercely protective of his reputation. He had smuggled his disgraced relative out of England and provided Holt with funds to keep himself out of sight. To avoid a paper trail, he had used a house elf to courier a seasonal allowance and the Trace Powder had lead to an anonymous wizard in Germany with no educational record from either Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, or Durmstrang.

“This could be a false positive. We're still working on refining the image search spell and it depends on camera coverage.” Hermione temporised. This was their first snatch and grab, and they needed to be sure. The identification was hardly case closed though the use of such a heavy disguise charm and the money and the lack of records suggested the wizard was up to something even if he wasn't Ballard Holt.

“I won't do anything until we can get a blood or aura ID.” Justin promised. “I won't jump the gun and mess this up.”

“My complaint against Holt doesn't have an expiry date. We can be the tortoise.” Hannah had cavilled at hosting the meeting, worried that an Auror might take an interest in her guests. She didn't think she was being watched and she hadn't registered her vassalage under the House of Rosier with the British Ministry. However, once she sued Holt under German law, the newly forged link between her and Cathal would be public. So she had gone for a little holiday to Germany and they met now in a B&B in Trier.

Cathal Rosier via her mother Derica Max was a citizen under the aegis of the Bundesministerium für Zauberei, the German Ministry of Magic. As such, she could lodge Honour Complaints against foreigners under the old Duelling Laws. The sword duelling legislation was archaic but had once been so popular that it had spilled over into Muggle society, necessitating codification in line with civil law.

It was a frustratingly proxy though entirely legal route. Ballard Holt had killed Hannah's mother, causing a blood debt, the resolution of which was a matter of honour under German magical law. The crime had not been committed on German soil so no murder charge could be brought but blood debts hinged on citizenship not jurisdiction.

Hannah had pledged herself to the House of Rosier under the rule of blood; a half-blood seeking the protection of a pure-blood matron. That shameful little legality was still on the books in both Britain and Germany, and indeed most of the magical nations in the world. Mostly it allowed for the adoption of not-quite-pure heirs without changing the blood status of the House. It didn't work for Muggle-borns otherwise Hermione would've started adopting people en masse just to stick her fingers up at the hidebound.

“I'd actually rather him dead.” Hannah remarked, shuffling photos and papers and parchments. “If I could be certain enough we have the right man.”

“There's no death penalty in Germany.” Hermione said, mostly as a matter of form. “We need him tried and Pensieved to confirm my memories, otherwise we're open to an appeal on the grounds of mind charms.”

“I do want to be sure.” The witch conceded. She wanted to nail her mother's killer to the wall. not a cross.


	22. Unlettered

It was a rare day that Cathal got to study for her interest alone. She was always reading, always checking, reminded of her days as Granger the Swot. Hermione remembered the lessons of her younger self's obsessive education and closed the books at five o'clock. Moppet's pointed prod with a wand might also have contributed to the pause.

“Your brains leaks out your ears.” The house elf remarked, floating her friend's chair away from the table just in case she was tempted to reach for another tome. Cathal-Hermione had been nose to parchment all day so it fell to Moppet to apply sense.

“There are so many ways to get at the 'truth'.” She used air quotes because she was annoyed by the slapdash medieval methodology of magical research. “I'd offer sexual favours for an index.”

“Your Nott wizard might helps.” Moppet quirked her ears. Hermione laughed. “You been thinking abouts his pants?”

“A bit, yes.” The witch stood, stretching then pacing. She wanted to talk about 'it' all of 'it' and 'It'. Who'd been the 'It Girl'? Hermione vaguely remembered the phrase. Advertising, probably. Or cinematic hyperbole. She rubbed her face with the palms of her hands. Brain definitely leaking, she thought. “I feel better in my self, in my body. I think I could be intimate. I'm well past the meat puppet stage at least.”

“You don't need rushing.” She hopped up onto her squashy chair in the tea nook. They was in the mistress's suite, which had little rooms for doing stuff in. Her witch used most for bookshelves. Except the tea nook because it had a window and Moppet liked it.

“I'm not, and I don't think Theo is either. We're going all traditional and slow. There's probably an endorsed progression or list in some helpful Gentlefolk's Guide to Bonking.” Hermione stared out of the window. She'd modified the glass to show the actual view. Or rather a facsimile of the actual view as the wards resisted situating La Roseraie in the now. She'd linked a scrying spell set to watch the street outside to play in near real time on the interior of the window glass.

“Respectable bonking.” Moppet corrected. House elves didn't like when their witches or wizards put themselves about. That sort of doings made babies who got forgotten even though they were of the family. Peoples who needed serving but who weren't served. It made elves itch not doing.

“Mundane and magical contraceptives shall be utilised should such activities arise either before or after matrimony, should matrimony take place.” She wasn't in any hurry to marry or procreate. She did plan to do both, at a sensible pace. “At least I won't have to find an excuse not to live at Nott Manor. I don't think Theo will be getting his house back any time soon. Not before his father's confirmed deceased most likely.”

“You goings to kill old Nott?” The bond between them meant no secrets.

“He's a Death Eater and I let him go. I know I'm playing favourites. But.” Hermione frowned then smirked at herself. “But I can find an excuse I can live with. Theo helped me. It'd be poor form to orphan him for his trouble.” She made herself stop pacing and take a seat in the Directoire armchair. Dangerously modern furniture for the Rosiers. “No one has named Tristan Nott specifically. Until that happens, I can be a nepotist.”

“Do you love him?” Moppet asked, curious.

“I think I could, if I let myself.” She contemplated the ceiling as though divining from the swirls of plaster. “Love wasn't fun the first time around. All through Sixth Year, I thought I would die from the pain of watching Ron and Lavender.” Lavender was in Milan doing beautiful things at a Cosmetic Charms company. Zabini had mentioned her before he had rabbited for good. “I don't want that again.”

“Yous don't have to have him at all. Yous could have just Moppet.” The house elf asserted pugnaciously. “We's bestest friends.”

“Oh, Moppet.” Hermione leaned over and hugged her bonded companion. “No matter who else is there, It'll always be just us.”


	23. Unsigned

They got four before the British Ministry noticed. After Holt, the Bundesministerium für Zauberei had been very interested in what it could do for Lady Rosier and her vassals. After Grindelwald and two Muggle wars, the German Ministry was punctilious about the rule of law. Their legal system had to haul along millennia of precedent and legislation but there was at least some forward momentum.

Cathal had a series of meetings with Ludwig Forstner, the Deputy Minister, in Berlin to discuss the civil suits Rosier et al wished to bring against various people. She didn't know whether to be pleased or dismayed at Herr Forstner's boggled expression when she handed over copies of the most likely cases. The paperwork covered his desk to a depth of several centimetres.

Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt had not been nearly as forthcoming. Other Ministries had requested information, every European Ministry certainly had, but had got little. Other than the high profile Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban during the war, there were no current Wanted hunts. Plenty of requests for transit for British Aurors on classified missions, just paltry intel on the missions themselves.

Once the German Ministry showed its interest, France and the Benelux Ministries sent inquiries. Not official, because the niceties had to be observed, but not casual either. Hermione went to meetings and then she and Theo, acting as her aide, went. Then she, Theo, Susan, Alderton, and the Cattermoles went. They testified to what had happened at Hogwarts under Snape and under Umbridge.

Once the relevant Ministries had the evidence, it was a matter of waiting for the suspects to cross into the appropriate jurisdiction and then arrest, judicial Pensieve, and judgement. Little fanfare and most of the sentences were shorter than the victims would like but importantly, once the memories were duly admitted as evidence the crimes were officially documented.

Without a large voting bloc, Cathal couldn't get legislation passed but she could submit requests for legal reviews based on documented evidence. When those reviews were denied, as they usually were, the Seats of Rosier and Bones could convene appeal committees, which did not need Wizengamot approval. And a case under official appeal could not be archived. Aurors started hiding when Susan neared the DMLE.

It wasn't progress. It wasn't even the second cousin of progress but no one's file got shuffled away into the Stygian recesses of the Ministry Documents Depository. 

And then Cathal was detained as she left a meeting of the Azkaban Reform Committee.

The Aurors weren't so gauche they dragged her through the halls but she was marched very firmly to the Office of the Minister. Shacklebolt, looking as determined as he had during the war, stood as she entered. To intimidate, Hermione guessed, not as a courtesy. Aurors took position either side of the door, wands in hand if not pointed.

“As you are a sitting member of the Wizengamot, I will allow you to explain before I endorse a charge of treason against you, Lady Rosier.” Shacklebolt spoke steadily, his deep voice resonant.

“Treason?” She had not expected that. “On what grounds?”

“Conspiracy with a foreign government to undermine the security of the nation.” His gaze remained firmly on her face as he pushed a scroll forward. Hermione picked it up and read it carefully.

“The ink is still wet.” She remarked, because sass died hard.

“That is because you have been very busy, very quickly.” Shacklebolt did not wince. He had not done this on a whim or because he found the young Head of the House of Rosier, Selwyn, pseudo-Shafiq, quasi-Malfoy, and gossip-purported-Nott personally annoying. “You leaked confidential papers to the German Ministry.”

“No, I didn't.” Hermione snapped back crisply. “Nothing I gave them had any official Ministry seals.” She met his stare with ice. “Because none of the cases I shared had any traction with this Ministry. Not a damn one. It was all private correspondence and personal testimony, Minister.”

“I hope you are very confident of that, because you will have to provide copies of every last parchment and scroll to prove it.” He had been horrified, and mortified, when one of his advisors had presented him with a request from Berlin for Pensieve records the British Ministry did not in fact have.


	24. Unsoothed

Susan was furious. If she had been angry for herself, she might have thrown something or sworn or thrown things while swearing and drinking cheap boxed wine because fuck you, world. But this wasn't about her so she swallowed her rage and pulled out her mobile phone. She ducked into the Ladies, flushing herself into an anonymous public convenience in the London CBD. The signal was better on the mundane side.

She called Justin, racking up quite a bill because he was in Lisbon schmoozing with the Assistant Deputy Head of the Departamento de Sigilo, who liked pretty young men and could be persuaded to listen to anything so long as he got to ogle. Regrettably for their plans, persuaded to listen was not persuaded to act. Justin had to bolster his charisma with evidence.

She called Hannah, who called the Cattermoles, Anthony, and the Twins, who called every Gryffindor in their network, and Theo, who sent the owls out to everyone too traditional to Nokia. The Head of the House of Bones stewed for the few minutes it took for her phone to magically recharge. Things to do, she mulled. Things to do first.

Getting a spot on the wireless would be a good idea. Even if the Ministry pooh-poohed Cathal's arrest as an 'informal inquiry' or a 'Ministerial special query' or some other goodthinkful non-statement, there would be comment. There simply weren't enough people in magical Britain for an impartial press, which rankled many half-bloods and most Muggle-borns.

The Quibbler happened when the Lovegoods felt like it. Xenophilius was ashes where fire had been and his phoenix did not look to be rising. Susan sent a text message to Theo to suggest a statement to Le Voyant, the French magical newspaper. Cathal was resident in Paris and the Rosiers were historically Frankish.

As much as Susan wanted to hex the Minister, she knew Kingsley was a good man. He was part of the Order and he'd fought at Hogwarts. But he was trying to pull the country together back to what it had been rather than innovate. From what she knew of backroom gossip, he like many believed Lady Rosier was playing a long game in consolidating the remaining Slytherin families.

Kingsley wasn't entirely paranoid in that regard. Susan had taken a close look at Cathal's manoeuvring through the Sacred Twenty-Eight before she had accepted sponsorship to the Bones Seat. The pure-blood ancestral Seats could fall but they couldn't be removed. So long as there was an heir duly endorsed by two pure-blood Seats, that heir could sit for their family. Of course, if the heir was no longer pure themselves, then their Seat would no longer be protected from abolition.

Politics could kiss her arse but there were a great many people who remembered her aunt Amelia with respect and would believe her, nice ethical Hufflepuff that she was. So Susan decided on the lie she wanted to tell the Wizengamot. It didn't have to be a credible lie or even an advantageous one. All it needed to be was a lie with wings to flutter quickly on the winds of gossip.


	25. Unforetold

Cathal Rosier's second go-around in Ministry custody was more comfortable than the first. There were rules written into the founding charter of the Wizengamot concerning legal proceedings against sitting members, which superseded the usual protocols. Hermione was wryly amused that she had more rights as a felon in a plum hat than she did as an ordinary citizen.

Her person could not be searched or 'incommoded' so although the Aurors could demand she surrender her wand, which she did, they could not frisk her to confirm the hawthorn was her only one. Garrick Ollivander was there to verify the wand was hers. The frail old man regarded Cathal with curiosity as his hands smoothed over the wood.

“For the unwelcome and the harbingers of ill fortune.” He murmured.

“You weren't wrong.” Hermione agreed.

“If King Croesus crosses the Halys River, a great empire will be destroyed.” Ollivander quoted the Delphic Oracle ruefully. Perspective mattered. Cathal Rosier had indeed been a herald of defeat for her own side, if one assumed the daughter of a Death Eater shared her father's allegiance. The wand-maker was rather thankful she had not.

“Is it the right wand?” The Auror demanded, on edge on the threshold of Rosier Hall. Wizengamot members under investigation were to be sequestered in their ancestral homes. The wards were open but no Ministry mandate could compel the house elves not to glare at the security escort.

“Oh, yes, this is the wand I sold young Miss Rosier.” Ollivander confirmed placidly. Perhaps there was some emphasis on 'I' perhaps not. Wand-makers often had a sense of how a wand was used not just its composition. Hermione would not be surprised if the old wizard could guess she used a pair in tandem. He said nothing to the Aurors, just wincing as they drooped the hawthorn wand into a lead case and sealed it with an evidence tag.

“Receipt.” Hermione reminded them coolly. Despite the seal system, plenty of evidence had gone walkies during the war. Before the war too. The lead Auror scrawled a chitty before handing it over with a florid bow. They Disapparated with a mannerless crack.

“Banshee hair wands are not common.” Garrick Ollivander remarked. “The other of the pair you use will need careful handling while you are without its partner.”

“I practise with a variety of others, in case I'm disarmed. I'll rotate the hawthorn out and use a different set.” She took his helpful advice at face value. If the wand-maker was planning to report her, well, it wasn't illegal to own more than one wand. Most people didn't, having developed an intimate connection with their favoured one through long use. Hermione had worked hard to remain versatile. Any common or garden variety nitwit could cast Expelliarmus.

“The Radnotts are friends of mine. They speak well of you.” The old wizard sighed. It had been a long war. A long two wars. Three, if you counted Grindelwald. “When they return your wand to you, ask to see the wand storage room. I have never been. I am not certain what the Ministry calls it.”

“How petty should I be about the request?” Hermione asked, feeling distinctly that this little chat was going to be depressing. “Just complain about minor damage or insist the first wand isn't the right one?”

“The latter, possibly.” Ollivander mused. “You may have to insist. The Ministry likes their little secrets. They say they break the wands of criminals, and perhaps they did once as a matter of course.” Perhaps. He had known when Rubeus Hagrid's wand had broken. You could feel it, when one of yours died. “They must have hundreds from the Muggle-borns. And they're not giving them back.”

“I'll look into it.” She promised.

Ollivander used her Floo to return to his shop, not wishing to Apparate between two heavily warded locations. Hermione doused the green flames after he departed, closing the connection to sever the DMLE trace. She couldn't leave her home by any magical means and Shacklebolt would have briefed the Aurors on non-magical means. She couldn't owl or Howler or fire talk. Which was fine. She pulled out her phone and texted her comrades-in-arms her location.


	26. Unabashed

“It's not quite a footballer's cocaine-fuelled four-in-a-bed sex romp but it'll do.” Susan regarded the front page splash with pride. There was even a photograph, evidently cropped from a larger still of Wizengamot members. Offside, in the background, she and Cathal stood heads together. “Whispering sweet nothings.”

“We were complaining about the session recess.” Hermione peered at the fuzzy duet of them nodding and leaning closer. Her hand lifted to touch Susan's sleeve. “Or was it the Yule addresses? That's the commencement hallway.”

“I think it's the addresses, look, you can see Doge's fez. He only wears it on special occasions.” She tapped the hat in question tipped jauntily at the edge of the picture. “Some poor minion had to trawl through all the official photos to find one of us. I should've sent the Prophet something posed.”

“No, it works better this way. More surreptitious. Aids the pretense of investigative journalism.” Her eyes travelled to the gushing purple prose. “Skeeter is salivating. 'Impassioned and thwarted young love throbbing...' I wonder if she's on something. Amphetamines, possibly.”

“I don't care if she snorts pixie dust as long as the Ministry can't shove your arrest under the rug.” Susan said staunchly, although she had winced at 'poignant, pining pair's petal-soft glances'. “Skeeter doesn't give a damn so long as it sells. She once ran a rag piece on my aunt's dear friend when they went to Greece together.”

“Homophobic?” Wizarding Britain had divergent opinions on homosexual relationships. Traditionalists often preferred their heirs to have dalliances with same-sex partners to avoid contaminating bloodlines as even magical contraceptives weren't foolproof. Marriages were arranged, anyway. Loving your spouse was entirely a matter of chance.

Victorian social mores brought in by half-bloods and Muggle-borns had complicated the social discourse. In this case, the 'modern' views had not been enlightened. Combined with the younger generations' refusal to marry as commanded, the zeitgeist had got ugly. Marcus's father's attitude to Oliver, to the suspicion of the idea of the suggestion of Oliver, was unfortunately common.

“Use of public funds for a romantic rendezvous.” Susan corrected then frowned. “You're not entirely sold on this tactic?”

“Putting it about that Shacklebolt had me detained to stop a marriage between the Houses of Rosier and Bones will certainly get everyone talking. Ministry flexing to find something to stop my inexorable hoarding of power, trumped up charges, and so forth.” There would be no chance now for a quiet hearing. “If this is the Prophet's standard, Witch Weekly will be worse. I don't like the prurient interest in flirting schoolgirls.”

“There's only one magical school in Britain. Of course we were there together.” She hadn't liked the breathless speculation about illicit snogging in hall closets either but what did you expect? The Prophet was a Ministry mouth-piece at best and little more than a scandal rag since the Death Eaters had gutted the paper. The weekly magazines had survived better because they were run by hobbyists for niche markets.

“This will give us another in with the Dutch Ministry. Their Muggle government has just passed a marriage equality law. We badly need a middle ground with our neighbours to reassure them Britain hasn't gone completely bonkers.” No one wanted to talk to them, officially. “I don't like exploiting a social issue that doesn't affect me. I'm not a lesbian.”

“I am.” Susan said forthrightly. “So I'm going to exploit away. Whatever it takes. Gloves off.”

“Oh, I didn't realise.” Hermione wondered if she should apologise for her obliviousness.

“I've noticed.” The redhead's smile was teasing. “Neville has been hinting that you are toying with my affections. Leading me on with a forked tongue. Or some sort of tongue related activity.”


	27. Unlatched

“And you know her how?” The question was mild, of contextual interest only.

“Her father killed my father.” Malcolm answered simply, holding his tea cup in a steady hand.

The Assistant Director General of Mi5 raised an eyebrow at the composed young woman sitting in the armchair opposite him. Whatever he had been expecting when he had been shown in through the fireplace, a tall blonde in a twinset wasn't it. He guessed she was about twenty. Preece, he knew, was twenty-five. They must start young in the magical world.

“Is he at large?” He had to get some hold back on reality. The little leprechaun thing had its own chair and was dunking shortbread in its tea. And watching him.

“He's dead. Killed while resisting arrest, twenty years ago.” Hermione replied blandly, opting for conservative answers until she was more sure what the Intelligence bod wanted. The request for a meeting had come through back channels via former Hufflepuffs to Susan. The Muggles had taken note when the Ministry arrested a sitting member of the Wizengamot.

“There's not much in his file.” He was being generous. Evan Rosier was a name an old list, nothing more. The Assistant DG was very interested in keeping track of who was on which side of the conflict. Many of his compatriots considered the magical stoush to be a class war but for him there were more shades of ethnic conflict or one of those God awful Balkan feuds that defied outside understanding.

“Is this a fact finding mission?” She asked, glancing at Preece. They hadn't spoken since she had referred him to Alastor Moody. He didn't look all that pleased to be here but he kept his silence.

“In a way.” A long career in Counter-Intelligence had taught him when to be a prying nuisance. “Her Majesty's government would very much like to know if there is a third war brewing or whether your alleged treason is part and parcel of the Ministry's renowned infighting. The former PM had good things to say about Shacklebolt.”

“There are many good things to be said about Minister Shacklebolt.” Hermione endorsed. “But for the sake of rebuilding the government, he's let the bureaucracy close ranks.”

“So this is more of the same old war.” The statement was equal parts cynical and world-weary.

“Interbellum, there were show trials. We do not want a repeat of that sort of miscarriage of justice. We want full and open and transparent judicial investigations into administrative misconduct cross-factionally.” It was a longish rallying cry but a tidy one. Another glance at Preece showed her his expression had changed, just a twitch. His father hadn't got an inquest. Robert Preece had barely been an addendum.

“Like the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa?” Malcolm asked quietly.

“It won't get that far. We'll never have the mandate.” She would have liked to air all the dirty laundry and clean the bones out of all the closets but unless an outside force stepped in, there simply wasn't an impartial means of doing so. The International Confederation of Wizards did not have the equivalent of the European Court of Human Rights, and even if they did the name alone would cause problems.

“Who do you want? You have a top ten, I presume.” The Assistant Director General was not above horse-trading to avoid a conflict, and it would be enlightening to see who the magical folk were hunting compared to the sanitised files begrudgingly provided by the Ministry. “If you share your intel with us, we may be able to assist, if you have detailed enough files.”

“Oh do we have files.” Hermione grinned like a dragon.


	28. Unperson

The article was short.

Nov. 24, 1997. Ellen Cracknell, aged 78, and her son Gareth Cracknell, aged 51, were found dead of unknown causes in their Lambeth home. Ms Cracknell, a retired nurse, was active in her local community and volunteered with the Salvation Army. Mr Cracknell worked as a machine fitter after leaving the Army and was a West Ham United F.C. Life Member. London Metropolitan Police have not released a statement.

“Muggle mother and Squib brother.” Hermione had shamelessly used her Wizengamot privileges to gather information but it had been the green Old School Tie that had plumped Umbridge's file. The former Slytherins now in government service weren't exactly falling over themselves to help Lady Rosier but favours still traded.

She'd added Umbridge's relatives' names to the search list of missing persons and the Muggle detective company she'd hired had found them. Too late for the interview Hermione had hoped to arrange on the slim chance either Cracknell would want to pursue a lawsuit. Gareth was certainly owed a share of any estate their father left. It wouldn't be much; Orford had mopped floors in the Ministry before his daughter had pensioned him off.

“Can we prove she dobbed them in to the Death Eaters? Assuming they died from the Killing Curse.” Susan read the clipping. The date was right for the purge.

“She could have done it herself, to avoid anyone finding out. As a direct relation, she could have found them with blood magic. Umbridge got her hands on the Locket pretty damn quickly to shore up her status.” The Pink Toad certainly had no connection to either the Selwyns or Salazar Slytherin. If Voldemort had found her with the Locket, he would have slaughtered her.

“Can we prove it?” That was the crux. Susan would like to wave her wand and magically make all right with the world, but there wasn't enough magic in the world to do that. “Other than cracking her skull open with a Pensieve.”

“We could probably confirm if the Killing Curse had been used, and there might be traces of potions in the toxicology reports. Or the samples, if they've been kept.” Hermione knew, courtesy of the Grangers, that biopsy slides were typically kept for five years but whether that translated to autopsies she wasn't sure.

“If.” Susan didn't like that word. If they had an integrated police force across the magical/mundane divide then cases like the Cracknells' wouldn't be let go cold.

“Mi5 is interested now. If we read them into all our active cases, they have the authority to requisition, or whatever the term is, the evidence. If we drag them into this, now, we might be able to keep war-time cases active.” She didn't know enough about police procedure or the inner workings of the Intelligence agencies. “MACUSA doesn't want to know but the FBI might.”

“No other Ministry has renegotiated 'interim' amendments to their Statutes of Secrecy.” The Wizengamot had not liked having to bend to the Muggles but they had badly needed the support of the mundane government. “There will be leaks.”

“We'll put a modified Fidelis on the paperwork. It doesn't have to be blanket coverage, just redactions. That might even work better, as the people handling these cases will be used to Classified files.” Hermione wanted to fight the good fight, to lead the crusade, to kick in doors personally but intellectually she knew she didn't have to do everything herself any more. “We're not washing our hands of this. We're recruiting professionals.”

“How much can we trust them?” Susan strongly suspected the answer was relational to how far she could spit.

“Moppet still can go hidden to Scotland Yard for their knowings.” The house elf remarked from where she sat on the dining room table duplicating folders of parchment. Every last slip, insert, memo, and sticky note. She was double sures to get all the bits to drown the Ministry twonks in because no one arrested her witch. “Secrets is the seeds of lies.”


	29. Unhurried

They were in one of the sitting rooms, dusted off and comfy after long shrouding. The house elves had scoured Rosier Hall for cushions to soften the formal settees in a manner his father certainly would have disapproved of as slovenly bohemian. Theo acknowledged the proxy paternal dismay as he put his feet on an embroidered velvet bolster and leaned back to contemplate the painted ceiling. Clouds drifted languidly above.

“Do you want to marry Susan?” He asked as casually as he could manage because he was entirely relaxed and not mortified with jealousy. “We can arrange a triad. I would suggest a formal marriage between the Houses of Nott and Rosier with a hand-fasting to the House of Bones. I need permission to wed, whereas you and Susan can give yourselves consent as the Heads of your Houses.”

“Most men would be more enthusiastic about having two wives.” Hermione remarked, shuffling through that day's newspapers. There was bugger all worth reading mostly but she needed to keep abreast of the political discourse overseas. She had people popping by all the time to update her but they were spread thin.

“Most men would be thinking with their genitals.” Theo did not huff. He had invited himself over to spend time with his unofficial inamorata because he enjoyed Cathal's company. He had not come to interrogate her over the Prophet's and Witch Weekly's breathless coverage of her supposed alliance with another witch.

“And with which particular organ are you thinking?” She inquired grammatically, frowning at the New York Ghost's editorial on subversive techno-magic. They meant mobile phones. They weren't saying they meant mobile phones but they meant mobile phones.

“My brain, I hope.” His heart, in truth. Oddly enough Cathal's inattention was reassuring him. If she truly wished to complicate their marriage with another partner, she would have been more blunt. But perhaps she wished to be as nonchalant as he did. Because he was not bothered at all. Look at him lounging sur la chaise utterly relaxed.

“Susan started the rumour to lambaste Shacklebolt over my arrest and possibly poke a stick at the conservative half-bloods. Starting a dialogue about marriage reform wouldn't be amiss.” Hermione lowered the paper to regard her proto-fiancée seriously. “Everything was done on the hop. I apologise that you were not consulted.”

“I would have preferred to have been involved in a strategic decision of this magnitude.” Theo said stiffly, which he rued almost as soon as he said it. That was not the tone upon which he wished to begin this discussion. “I was surprised and Malfoy got ahold of a paper and I had mentioned to him our understanding after he was whining about Marcus and Oliver and Spinnet so he thought the story rather a good joke.”

“Which you did not find funny.” She observed, wanting to hug him and unsure whether he would appreciate the gesture. She pushed the newspapers aside, shifted to the settee next to his, and put a hand on his shoulder. There, close but not too intimate. They weren't engaged yet. There were protocols. Books of protocols. She'd read half a dozen of them.

“I did not.” He confirmed in what he hoped was a more moderate voice. “You know what a wretch Malfoy can be when he thinks he's on top. He'll never forgive me for not going to Azkaban too. Not that I would accept his gracious pardon. If he had been any sort of clever, he would have stood with you.”

“It certainly would've been easier on him and me if he had. I could pack him off somewhere sunny and forget about him.” This wasn't about Malfoy. Hermione rubbed her fingers in a slow circle over Theo's arm, feeling his tension. “I don't want Susan. I want you. I want you best and most and maybe even for always.”

“There was an article about Weasley in the Weekly.” Theo confessed. “You were mad for him when you were her.”

“I was.” Hermione saw no point lying. “It didn't last, not seeing them a second go around. She wanted to give everything and he was just there, you understand? Taking her affection as his due, on his terms. I don't think either of them understood what a relationship of equals should be.” She paused, hesitating. If she couldn't tell Theo, trusting he wouldn't mock, then there was little point marrying him. “I don't think they would've lasted but I doubt she would've admitted that easily. They would have had a miserable marriage.”

“Does it still hurt?” He asked gently.

“No, not really. I'm annoyed with myself, with her, and absolutely with Ron. He was so slack. If he'd been the youngest and had got more attention then maybe he would've pulled his socks up. Would've seen some point in striving but he wasn't so he didn't see much reward in exerting himself. Not a coward, I suppose, but everything was a bit too much Boys' Own Adventure for him.” The words came out in a rush, so while it might not hurt, it still stung.

“We don't have to do anything in a hurry.” Theo reassured them both. “I just wanted to be sure you want us.”

“I want us.” Hermione asserted. “I want a lot of things, but us is right up there.”

“Next to Umbridge's head in a jar.” He smirked. His eventually-to-be wife wasn't bartering with the Muggles idly.

“It would be a very nice wedding present.” She agreed contentedly. “I'll add it to my collection.”


	30. Undoing

It got vicious in the end. Susan was hauled in for an inquiry from the Ethics and Conduct Committee, whereat she was thoroughly carpeted. She was compared unfavourably to her aunt three times before being cautioned that as a half-blood her status as Head of House was contingent on a better heir not being found. She could easily be replaced, particularly as her sponsor was questionable. She should consider herself on probation.

Susan had left that meeting so angry she couldn't even Disapparate. She'd taken the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, which was noticeably shyer of customers after Hannah's links of Rosier had been made public. No one had officially warned off Aurors or Ministry employees from drinking there but word had got around that it was 'unwise'.

The redhead was too angry to drink, almost too angry to speak. She swore at the world for ten minutes before she could tell Hannah why. Once her rant had been raved, the two witches shooed out the dregs then Apparated to Rosier Hall to spread the angry around.

Hermione and Theo were collating files, which they put aside when Susan fell upon them. They listened as she relayed the Ministry's threat and the potential for her to be ousted thus gravely hampering their attempts at reform. With effort she calmed down enough to agree to a Pensieve; not because they doubted her report but to be verify the interpretation.

Hermione would have preferred to go herself. However she was unwilling to violate her house arrest so Moppet took the two Hufflepuffs and one Slytherin back to Hogwarts on the quiet. The house elf's bonding to the witch had partially undone the tie between Moppet and the school but they could still communicate and request to use the Pensieve in the Headmistress's office.

Hogwarts allowed them access once Professor McGonagall had gone to bed. The quartet watched the Inquiry several times, assessing the threat and the undercurrents to gauge the seriousness of this development. Serious enough was the consensus. Susan made a copy of the memory before they returned to Rosier Hall.

“There are protocols for the Wizengamot to replace sitting Members.” Hermione pulled out a thick tome that had seen a fair bit of recent use. The Charter and Proprieties of the Folkmoot Wizengamot was heavy going but centuries of political in-fighting had ensured procedures for almost anything imaginable. “But most can't be done without an official Chief Warlock. Shacklebolt's only an Acting. He doesn't have the numbers to confirm himself.”

“I think we need to go on the attack with this.” Susan had not liked the Commitee's tone. How fucking dare they use her Aunt Amelia against her like they knew her or had done a bloody thing to prevent her murder. “Can we make a case against Kingsley trying to browbeat Members? He's up to two now.”

“Assuming the Minister is aware of the Ethics Committee's efforts.” Theo interjected for the sake of precision. “This may be Ministry personnel covering themselves to curtail any investigations into their wartime conduct.”

“If this is the administration trying to batten down the parliament then we have a bit more wiggle room.” Hermione flicked parchment until she found a very closely written and much amended section on the inherited Seats. Quorum adjustments and abeyances and House extinctions had shrunk the pure-blood voting bloc but the House Seats were in of themselves nearly inviolate. “If we can pull enough of the old Seats from the Assembly, stage a walk-out, then we can stall the Wizengamot into recess.”

“Do we have the numbers?” Hannah asked, echoing Cathal. “My great-uncle has the Abbott Seat. I'm not anywhere near the top of the list to succeed but I could request a meeting with my Head of House.”

“There are still Twenty-Eight recognised Seats until the post-war revisions go through and those amendments are waiting on the confirmation of the Chief Warlock, which is waiting for Godot.” Hermione didn't expect the appointment to be ratified for years. Many were resistant to one person having both hats and the numerous factions couldn't agree on anyone else impartial enough to hold the judicial position.

“We have Nott, Rosier, Selwyn, and can make a solid argument for Malfoy and Shafiq. Gaunt, Crouch, Lestrange are extinct.” Theo rattled off the names with ease. “Shacklebolt, Weasley, Prewett, and Longbottom are out of our hands.”

“We can easily get interviews with the Houses of Flint and Slughorn, and Bulstrode if we can track down Millicent's father. Rowle is out of reach.” This would involve more backroom deals than Hermione liked but many of the remaining Houses were traditionally Slytherin. “If we do this, we'll be doing what the conspiracy rumours suggest we are.”

“We only need thirteen Seats. I believe Avery, Black, Burke, Carrow, Greengrass, Parkinson, Travers, and Yaxley will at least hear us out.” Theo asserted.

“Fawley is traditionally a Hufflepuff House and has a good relationship with the House of Bones, though they don't like me being chummy with you, Cathal.” Susan had to shrug at the bias. “Macmillan is worse on that score but if Susan, Justin, and I ask Ernie to ask his granddad, I think we can get a hearing.”

“Olivander might agree to a private chat. We need to do this very quietly.” Hermione emphasised. They had to be quick and persuasive or their coup would fail before it started. “If we do this and call a vote of no confidence on Shacklebolt, who do we want to be Minister?”

“Me.” Susan declared firmly.


	31. Undemocratic

Potter blocked them from the Black Seat. Narcissa appealed her house arrest in order to Sit in a Wizengamot special session, citing her status as the last acknowledged blood heir of the name. Yes, she had joined the House of Malfoy but part of her nuptial contract stipulated in the event of a second heir, that child would join the House of Black. Thus Narcissa had not severed ties with her natal House nor had she been disowned or contracted a forbidden marriage or been sentenced to Azkaban to become a person of ill repute, therefore...

Therefore Harry James Potter was having none of that. He stepped up with a counterclaim to the Black Seat as the legal heir of the last name heir of the House of Black, who had been exonerated even if the ink was still wet on the pardon. To further bolster his claim, he lodged the support of the other living blood heir of the name; Andromeda Tonks. For while Miss Black had been cast from her House by her Head, Arcturus Black had not lodged the documents with the Ministry to make her disgrace public therefore...

Therefore no one had the Black Seat for the quorum.

The House of Gaunt was quietly packed away as untouchable and would in due course be slid under a metaphorical dust cover in the Department of Heritage and Lineage. That chalice was too poisonous for anyone to drink.

No one had the Lestrange Seat as no one with British citizenship was alive to claim it. There was some scrambling within the Ministere des Affairs Magiques de la France to find a suitable heir but Rodolphus and Rabastan's cousins had been as virulently blood purist as their English relatives. Grindelwald had cost the family all but a few lineages hiding in the colonies. Perhaps someone would come forward but they hadn't yet.

The House of Crouch had died with Barty Jnr. as the cadet line who had married into the Blacks had petered out between the two wars. Charis Crouch had passed an unknown and firmly not discussed magical malady to her children almost certainly inherited from her father Arcturus, who like all his siblings had died in middle age.

The House of Abbott granted an interview to the House of Bones and reluctantly the House of Rosier. Hannah's great-uncle gave his war hero niece his vote after she shared the Pensieve memory of the Death Eaters' boasting about her mother's murder, and the notarised date Cathal had submitted that memory to the Ministry. Hector Abbott had been told to his face such evidence did not exist.

The Houses of Carrow, Travers, and Yaxley joined the Rosier-Nott-Bones voting bloc because the Head Girl and the Head Boy had ensured the survival of their heirs. They wanted to avoid defaulting on any blood debts incurred during the Umbridge and Snape incumbencies. That Cathal and Theo had not called in any obligation made them anxious to show willingness now.

Avery and Burke were bought. Theo handled the negotiations, deadpan throughout, and secured their votes in writing. The two Houses wanted to oust Shacklebolt but they also wanted not to be seen doing so. Hermione would have preferred ignoring the venal gits. Unfortunately the need to secure them away from Ministry hands necessitated an arrangement.

The assenting vote of the House of Bulstrode took five phone calls, six owls, three Portkeys, and all of Millicent's patience to secure. Baldwin Bulstrode nominated his daughter as his proxy, sent the parchments by courier, and remained blissfully unencumbered by responsibility on a small Caribbean island. Nothing could convince him to return to the UK for the foreseeable future.

The House of Flint used the excuse of the lien Cathal owed them for the purchase of a ballgown to defend their choice. They were not being coerced. They were not obliged. Gerard Flint did not heed the advice of the barely legal friends of his disappointing heir. He was calling out the Ministry for negligence and incompetence on his own damn recognisance.

The House of Malfoy graciously agreed to assist its respected, long-time ally the House of Rosier in its endeavours to better magical Britain because Cathal told Draco he would do it. Not because he owed her, not because he was living rent-free in her stylish Parisian home, not because she was the only person between him and Azkaban. But because if he gave her temporary voting privileges for his Seat it would terrify the Ministry.

Olivander voted with them. Macmillan, despite Ernie's advocacy, did not. Rowle abstained because the Head of the House was still at large. Slughorn abstained to avoid alienating anyone while Parkinson contrived to be out of the country and unreachable. The House of Fawley made an impassioned speech for unity before ultimately siding with the Minister. The House of Greengrass, crippled financially by the loss of international business contracts, demanded reform and voted with Rosier.

Molly Weasley sat for Prewett and joined her husband in the Weasley Seat in standing with Shacklebolt. Longbottom stayed loyal too but it wasn't enough to halt the walk-out or the vote of no-confidence necessary to get the dissident Houses back into the Wizengamot. Kingsley stood down and threw a spanner in the works by nominating Remus Lupin as interim Minister. Because why throw a cat among the pigeons when you could use a werewolf?


	32. Unwinding

“We can't hold the bloc together with a werewolf as Minister.” Theo spoke his mind. The charms keeping them from being overheard functioned on Muggle devices as well. They were working with the mundane security organisations but they were not trusting them.

“My father has no argument with skin-changers. He makes good money from growing wolfsbane.” Marcus was sitting in on this meeting because he had an agenda of his own. He and Susan had made a list of the legislation they wanted excised. There was a forest of prejudiced amendments that needed felling.

“The Order remnant, and allied Houses, will support Professor Lupin.” Hermione was sure, and reluctantly also certain that she would have to have a face-to-face with Remus. She had been putting it off. He hadn't tracked her down either though what parent of a young Metamorphmagus had spare time for anything? “I'd rather have Macmillan and Longbottom than Avery and Burke.”

“I'd rather have doxies than Avery and Burke.” Susan muttered, fixing herself a cup of lemon and honey. She'd talked herself hoarse wrangling the non-inherited Wizengamot Seats, coaxing the moderates into listening to what 'the Forces of Darkness' had to say. She did not appreciate the title the Prophet had given their faction.

“We can divest ourselves of them as a show of willing.” Theo suggested, spreading scrolls of trade figures over the dining table. “Most of the reforms they want tally with what the House of Greengrass wants so we won't alienate them if we drop their most egregious demands. It would be insane to pass legislation protecting wizard ownership of goblin-made objects right now.”

“Or ever.” Hermione made a note in red ink in her legal journal. Gringotts had done right by Cathal and Granger had stolen a dragon from them. Penalising the goblins to dig magical Britain out of a financial hole was a non-starter. “The Ministry is sitting on wands and seized baubles. Someone has their hands in the kitty at the Department of Mysteries. We need an audit.”

“We can, sorry, the Wizengamot can, request an independent assessor from the ICW. There's quite a pool of them, mostly tracking down art theft post-Grindelwald. The looting was brutal.” Justin, sun-kissed and hungover from a long weekend in Athens, added a sheaf of parchment to the table. “Various pure-blood collectors did very well. The Burkes in particular.”

“There's our stick. We call for an assessor but limit the scope to the Ministry, freezing more seizures. I think they have helped themselves to quite enough.” The denuded House of Nott was textbook. Whenever Theo wanted to depress himself, he went through the household inventories. “The Carrows will back us to the hilt if we can stop claims against their House.”

“We'll need to keep personal claims open or we'll cut off recompense for the trials.” Hermione made another note, in a different journal, to check on Flora and Hestia. They had come to her for help because the Ministry had demanded they prove their father had been murdered by his cousins. As if he could have tortured himself to death on the living room carpet. 

“We can't stop pushing for inquiries. That's our core value, if that's the phrase.” Susan was picking up Muggle jargon even though it was just as much double-speak as the Ministry line. “We can throw a few policies out the window if we have to, but not that.”

“How much mileage will we get if I accept Ministry censure and withdraw from my Seats for the standard season? I would like to avoid the traditional grovelling to return if possible.” Hermione did not want to sit at home twiddling her thumbs and it lost them three Seats but Shacklebolt et al were too suspicious of her to work directly alongside the House of Rosier.

“Don't volunteer. Let them insist. They won't be able to organise a general election within the three months you're out so if we push something heavy; like the Departmental audit, we can give them your absence as a sop.” Justin advised. “You being seen to comply to your own government will help bolster our reputation internationally. We won't be seen as agitators.”

“We are the souls of compliance.” Marcus barred his teeth. He did not look meek at all.

“Fair and fainting damsels.” Hermione agreed, mirroring the grin.


	33. Unique

Moppet insisted she accompany her witch to the meeting with not-Professor the Wolf. The house elf wasn't sure how the half-Minister would behave so she was going to make certain there was no trouble. She'd do more than say 'bad dog' if he got bitey. Or if anyone else got bitey 'cause there was some looks when Cathal-Hermione walked into the Office of the Minister. No looks at Moppet as Moppet is invisibles and unsmellables. But looks like knives for eyes.

“Lady Rosier.” Remus had been conveniently already upright when the blonde girl strode in, so he would not have to rise to greet her. He held the Gryffindor chivalry as an ideal but he wasn't going to stand for Cathal Rosier.

“Minister Lupin.” Hermione replied politely. She did not offer her hand and neither did he. Full measure of awkward for this meeting.

“I have meant to speak with you since the battle.” He started with what was bothering him the most as the politics would keep. They weren't short of demands, objections, caveats, bloodymindedness, or prejudice. They never were. “I am worried about you. What you are and what you, or others, have done to you.”

“My grandmother used blood magic on me, which is illegal. It's in my file.” She glanced at the thick manilla file prominent on his desk. The House of Rosier had attracted a great deal of paperwork. “I was cleared of any consent in that magic, which you know.”

“A very useful excuse.” Remus agreed. “I don't doubt you were uninvolved. I know the feel of Dark Magic quite personally.” He paused to allow a snide comment on his lycanthropy. He was relieved but not surprised when Cathal didn't make one. Snape had likely spilled everything to her after the specious excuse of her figuring it out herself. “But there is still something wrong.”

“Is it wrong enough to distract from the negotiations?” Hermione asked what she suspected was a rhetorical question.

“For me, yes.” He tugged at the cuff of his new suit. His mother-in-law had had it made for him in dark brown wool, well-tailored and understated. Remus felt like he had been gift-wrapped. “Not, I suspect, for the interim Minister. The Office will not waive your censure like it did your house arrest. There is no 'pressing legislative need' for you to be present to vote on administrative minutiae.”

“Thus packing me nicely out of the way.” She smirked because she thought he would appreciate the irony of being locked up for the good of others. Judging from his frown, he did. Remus's shoulders rolled in what she thought was a hackle then he sagged, world-weary.

“For three months, as is traditional. The Wizengamot has come over all antiquated, which you exploit. Taking Susan and Hannah as your vassals, for instance.” He was fond of the Hufflepuffs. Such earnest children they had been. As earnest now but sharper. Particularly when pointed at him. “I would feel much better if I knew what you wanted. What you really wanted.”

“When I was younger I wanted recognition.” Oh how much she had craved it; hand waving in the air. “Now I want democracy. Wizarding Britain, indeed the whole magical world, will implode if we don't reform and balance. We can't be an enclave and we can't scapegoat the newcomers.”

“A very liberal, dare I say, Muggle attitude.” This was another of those things he mistrusted. Remus shook his head. “It rings false, coming from you.”

“Why does it matter so much who says it? Potter shouted at the storm for years and no one believed him. You can't force-feed people the truth.” Hermione would like to, if only to shut them up. “I'm not running for office. I hate politics. But I'm not going to use my Seat just to warm my bum.”

“You're not aiming for Minister?” Now that did surprise him.

“Nope. We'll advocate for Susan after you. Might not win the first term but she's a great candidate. She'll get there and if she marries a pure-blood witch, we'll be able to corral the purists behind her.” It was slightly playing her hand though Hermione wanted to give Remus something to soothe his fretting.

“That witch won't be you.” Lupin couldn't smell any arousal, not even lust for power.

“No. Theo Nott and I have an understanding. We'll do something private to avoid public commentary.” A thought occurred to Hermione that perhaps Millicent and Susan might be a good match. She'd try to get them in a room together in a house without Malfoy lurking.

“Will you make an oath to that affect? Kingsley and Augusta are terrified you will make a bid for the Ministership or for Chief Warlock.” If Rosier stepped aside, the removal of the spectre of a Death Eater's heir in control of the country would let everyone catch their breath. “Nott too.”

“Can we settle this so easily? A list of reforms in exchange for a person vow?” She wasn't against the idea. “I'll need an impartial solicitor with ICW accreditation and witnesses. I cannot speak for Theo but I believe he would be willing. To clean house.”

“Not a solicitor. Elf magic. House magic.” Moppet interrupted, popping into existence with her wand out of sight. “Bind honest into it.”

“Who are you?” Lupin asked courteous, swallowing all instinct to growl at the sudden arrival.

“I is Moppet and Cathal is mine.” The house elf declared. “And we wants no more nonsense. So we makes an oath. But you and yours make oaths too. And keeps them.” Bound with elf magic, the wanded folk would keep their words. Or they would hurt.

“That's the end of it?” Remus asked hopefully. No sudden reveal of treachery, no villainous cackling? He could endure being obligated so long as it wasn't to bury himself.

“I think so.” Hermione said, not averse to this finale.


End file.
